Atreus's Future
by JamesSilas
Summary: (Spoiler Warning) At the end of Fimbulwinter, Thor, the God of Thunder arrives at the home of Kratos and his son, Atreus. His desire for revenge and thirst for a glorious battle blind him. There will be sacrifices, pain, and a conflict that will echo across the nine realms. Most importantly, what will transpire this night will change Atreus, and his fate forever.
1. War and Thunder

The harsh, flesh numbing winds, the black clouds that blot the sky with raging thunder and relentless snowfall point to one conclusion; Fimbulwinter has begun. Following the death of Balder, the Aesir God, the dreadful season brewed in not long after. All of the nine realms are in a panic, as the signs of Ragnarok come to fruition over a hundred years sooner than expected. The chain of events has been accelerated due to the intervention of a father and his son. Kratos, the Greek God of War, and his child Atreus, known as Loki to the giants, now unwillingly play a role in the coming events of the prophecy due to their actions.

Three years have passed since the beginning of Fimbulwinter. The land of Midgard is buried beneath the thick coat of snow. Its lakes have become hardened and now sparkle like fields of diamonds. All is quiet, and any noise that is heard is more gentle than a soothing hum. At this time, the father and son slumber within their wooden cabin. The peace of the realm makes their sleep even more pleasant, leaving them with no care in the world. Although all seems serene, what would transpire this night would reawaken the slumbering chaos of the land.

Without warning, an earth-rumbling bang abruptly awakens them. The power behind the noise is so mighty that the entire house shakes violently.

"What was that?" Atreus questions in disarray.

"Your bow!" Kratos commands without any hesitation behind his decision.

The two arise from their wooden beds of hay and fur blankets to face whatever threat has come to their home. Atreus, as ordered by his dad, takes up his bow resting at his feet. The two are shaken by the booming noises that are occurring outside. Rushing ahead of him, Kratos moves toward a wooden pillar. Hanging from it is his golden axe of frost, the Leviathan. Angrily stripping it from its sheathed spot, he continues to march toward his door. He is only temporarily halted when a blinding bolt of lightning strikes through the ceiling. Even so, this does not stop the God of War from reaches his doorway. Fueling his rage as he moves through his home, he swings the entryway open and makes it outside.

Standing just a few feet away, as mighty as the Ghost of Sparta himself, is a dark figure in a hooded fur cloak. The only time that any physical features can be seen is when the devastating storm flashes around him. Still, the mere flickers of light are not enough to uncover this person's identity. The one heart-piercing detail that did not remain hidden regardless of the lighting is his glowing Cyan eyes. As if nature itself was at his command, the lightning dances around him, and only strike just out of his reach. Even the wind has become stronger in his presence. The stranger stands his ground, even with his enemy already bearing arms against him and with the world around them being more chaotic.

"Who are you?" Kratos shouts at the top of his lungs.

There is a brief pause, even the lightning stops for a moment. Suddenly, the stranger brushes his cloak off his left arm. Revealing a relic on his left side, once showing it, the storm returns just as destructive as before. From the series of Nordic runes carved into it pulsates electric, godly power. All who lay their eyes onto the weapon know its name, and shiver at its title. A hammer that gods, giants, and all the creatures of the nine realms fear, Mjolnir.

"I'm your demise!" The figure responds with a rumbling voice of hateful anticipating.

The fierce, howling lightning, the unique design of the stranger's mace all pointed to one conclusion. While Kratos only stares angrily at the warrior, his son Atreus breaks into a cold sweat. His throat closes and opens over and over, only allowing small, quick breaths. With what little confidence he has in this dreadful moment, the son of the Ghost of Sparta speaks the stranger's name.

"Thor..."

Kratos, now acknowledging the threat before them, is no longer full of rage, but concern. The knowledge of the bloodthirsty Aesir is unforgettable, a truth that none could disbelieve. An entity none would wish to be in the presence of, and now he stands before them with a burning vengeance in his eyes.

"My brother Balder, my favorite son Magni, and Modi," the Aesir begins to name them off, stricken in disdain. "All of them, taken by your hands..."

While Kratos only tenses at the hate emanating from the Aesir, his son's confidence begins to waver. He steps to the side, closer to his father, seeking comfort but not admitting his fear.

"I would like to see how better I fair against you, Ghost of Sparta," Thor grins arrogantly with violent intent.

Unlike the rest of the gods that the Spartan had slain in the past, he knew Thor was a foe that would not fall soo easily. Perhaps this God of Thunder could match, or even surpass him, the possibility that he might not be able to defeat the Norse god lingers in the back of his mind. There is only one thing that he can ensure. Kratos looks down at his fear-stricken son. He swallows a deep-frozen breath before addressing him as any Father should.

"Atreus," he whispers calmly.

The boy, slightly troubled by his father calling his name, looks up to him. The God of War smiles down at him, Atreus is left baffled at what he is witnessing. It is not often that his dad calls him by name, but also displays such emotion towards him. He grasps his chest, knowing that something is wrong. Yet, before he can reply, Kratos places his hand on the boy's cheek, gently and sliding it up to his son's head. The Spartan leads his hand onto Atreus's scalp temporarily, still smiling as if lost in an optimistic thought. As the storm grows more violent around them, the Ghost of Sparta lifts his hand and blocks his son from Thor's gaze.

The God of Thunder takes up his hammer, wielding it as lightning emits from all parts of it. Kratos tightens his grip on the Leviathan axe, frost, and ice pour from the razor blade. Being that both weapons were made by the same makers, a subtle hum of familiarity emits from both godly arms. Atreus's concern only grows as he is left to just observe the two gods staring down one another.

"F-Father?" The boy can only question what his dad's intentions are.

Kratos takes in another sigh, the ice-cold weather frosts his breath as he exhales. For the first time, he will face a battle not full of rage, but with hope. As calm as he can be, he asks of one last thing from his son.

"Run, and don't look back, my son..."

Atreus is left without words, only a gasp of air can escape his lungs. He glances once more at the Aesir. A weight on his heart is made for what's about to commence.

Thor begins marching towards them with malice filling in his burning blue eyes. With each stomp, the gravel beneath them rumbles, just like the thunder around them. Kratos, with an ear-pounding roar, releases his caged fury. The Spartan rage within him, ignites his arms and consumes his vision. The two leap at one another, Kratos takes the upper hand as he rams his shoulder into Thor's gut and sends the two of them flying across the valley.

Knocked down from the immense impact, Atreus looks in the direction of where the two went. With the two gods nowhere to be seen, he follows his instincts and his father's wishes and fleas. Without hesitation, he runs to the other side of his home, and as fast as his legs can manage, sprints in the opposite direction. However, escaping would prove to be a more significant challenge than he could anticipate. As he runs, the earth beneath him quakes and turns under his feet. The storm around him strikes more viciously, with lightning blasting near him and random debris dropping from above. The boy, while able to dodge the incoming stones, looks back to see why this is happening.

The clash between the two rage-fueled gods is causing Midgard itself to crumble and fall apart by their might. Lightning and ice are hurled all across Kratos and Thor's battleground. To any who would carelessly be caught in the crossfire, would not live to tell about it. Despite his father's wishes, Atreus will continue glimpsing back at their battle, having concern for his father's safety.

Many times he tumbles onto his knees and side from the unsteady ground. Yet, no matter how many times he finds himself on the floor, he repeatedly pushes himself back up. His father's compassion, his actions, and his words cannot leave the boy's mind as he frantically presses forward. With each time he looks back, his thoughts and beliefs become more conflicted.

The last time he does this is when the Aesir and Greek gods have made themselves airborne. At that moment, he witnesses Kratos hurl both of them into the nearest mountainside. Their devastating collision shatters the mass of stone and the land around it. The repercussions of this shockwave, shake the ground under Atreus. Without any time to react, he tumbles off the edge of a hill and rolls into a deep crevis. Once more, he is given no time to leave, as the ruble of the mound buries and traps him in the darkness of the pit.

Hours have passed, all is silent, and the valley is desolate. The trees that once surrounded the plot of land have been torn asunder. The narrow cliffsides that encased the canyon have been leveled and shattered. Smoke, ash, frost, and snow litter the area that was once Kratos and his son's home.  
Atreus, with what strength he has, begins pushing his way out of the pit. Little by little, the rocks that layered over him brush away as the boy grunts with each shove. With one last push, he flings a boulder off and over the pile of debris. He coughs vigorously to clear his throat of the dirt and dust that buried him, his breaths are just as rough. Despite his condition, Loki groans and lifts himself out of the crevis. His body is weak from the stress of last night, as well as the time spent getting himself free. He leans forward and uses his hands to grasp his knees while regaining his stamina.

Yet, he is unable to rest for long before taking notice of what lies before him. The current state of the land he calls home is in ruins. His heart pounds anxiously in his chest, the beats being so strong he can feel them in his throat.

"Oh, no..." Is all he can say with dread in his voice.

Atreus rushes back to his home, climbing what is left of the hill he fell off of. His frantic movements cause him to slip while moving up the slope. Even after reaching the top, he trips here and again. Pillars of rock have been forced out from under the earth, and cracks and gaps scar the fields and trails. Unfortunately, his worries only grow, and for a moment, his heart stops when he reaches his humble abode.

The home he was born in, where he grew up in, and where his fondest memories of his mother were, was no more. The shack has been obliterated by the cataclysmic battle. Little remains, the wood that was used to build the home is either burnt, broken, or left in dozens of pieces scattered across the ash-covered fields. Despite this saddening event, he proceeds passed it, only looking around at the damage.

Just ahead of him, a dense collum of smoke and mist lingers in the area of the chaotic battle. Atreus feeling a hint of suspicion takes up his bow, and from his quiver places a black arrow in between his fingers and holds it against the string. With his weapon lowered, he marches bravely into the fog, prepared to take on any threat that may lie within.

As he suspected, the cloud is too thick to see far into. Even when squinting his eyes, and getting low to the ground, his vision does not improve. Still, he takes precautions and turns his head rapidly in different directions to monitor his surroundings. With each step he carefully takes to sneak through, he slowly finds himself moving downward. After a few seconds of thinking, he realizes he is making his way to the center of a crater. Though his thoughts are in disarray, this pales in comparison to the discovery in front of him.

To his surprise, his foot bumps onto something metal smothered in the ashes. As his attention is directed to the object, the smoke around him slowly clears away. Strapping his bow around him, he begins to dig at the ground. At first, he is left uncertain as to what he has uncovered. A curved wooden handle with metal welded around it. Despite the damage to it, the familiarity of the grip is unmistakable. Without much time to study it, a single thought sparks in his mind. This theory, in the back of his head, consumes him with despair.

"It can't be," he tells himself, denying his own belief.

With his eyes widened, his throat becoming dry, and blinded by panic, he digs and scurries through the snow and dust. Clearing away whole chunks and masses of it with quick swoops of his hands and arms, in the hope that what he thinks is wrong. As he searches with haste, the thick mist continues to clear away and improve his sight. With each scoop of his hand, his panic only increases. Finally, with one swing of his hand, the ding of metal is heard.

Sadly, that which he discovers only adds more proof of his theory. Both his hands shake as he becomes hesitant to reach into the thin layer to uncover his find. He stutters his breathing, and his eyes water over the possibility. Still, slowly and surely, he eases his fingers into the mound of dirt. He goes at the same pace when retrieving the object, to which his prediction came true. Lying before his eyes are what remains of the Leviathan axe. Its handle is broken in two, and the razor edge is cracked with pieces of it missing. This once great weapon is left powerless and cast away to fade with the ruins of battle.

"How did this happen?" He questions himself, refusing to believe what he's seeing.

If the axe is here, then where is Kratos? Before he can ask himself this question, the answer is displayed not too far from him. Crystal clear as clean river water, the crater is revealed and exposing the truth. Atreus lifts his eyes to the center of the pit, what he stares at what he feared most.

"F-Father?" He questions his sanity for what is before him.

At the heart of the impact point, Kratos lies at the center, giving no sign of life. The blood from his severe bruising, cuts, and gash wounds stain the area around him. The God of War's body is placed in the supine position and has both arms crossed over his chest. The dust, snow, and ash have been brushed away from him. However, he was not the only one harmed. Leaving him is a thick trail of blood that stretches beyond the crater and into the wilderness. Thor is nowhere to be seen. Based on how settled the area is, none have been there for some time.

"Father!" Atreus calls out as he rushes to Kratos.

His frantic movement makes his sprinting unsteady, a few steps along the way he trips. With urgency, it takes him no more than a second to get back onto his feet. When close enough, he drops to his knees, sliding across the snow to immediately aid his dad. Stopping right next to his head, Atreus pulls him onto his lap.

"No, no, father!" The boy begs for him to awaken. He pats his father's face, shakes him, and shouts close to him.

Atreus in panic reaches into his pocket and retrieves a green resurrection stone. With no time to waste, he slams it into the Gods of War's chest. The gem shatters and fills the air with emerald healing energies.

"Wake up!" The boy's eyes water as his efforts proves useless.

With each passing second, his frightfulness converts to pure sorrow. He places his hands on each side of Kratos's head, lightly shaking it with the last bit of hope in his heart, wishing that he'll awaken.

"Dad, please," he pleads as tears start to flow from his eyelids. "Y-you can't lose, not here..."

No longer does doubt haunt his mind, only melancholy from his acceptance remains. Despite all of the tales told, and all the legends passed down to him about his father's strength, tenacity, and sheer willpower, he accepts the heartbreaking truth. The Ghost of Sparda is no more, and his spirit finally rests. Atreus wraps his arms around his dad's neck, holding on tight, unable to contain his pain.

"I can't lose you too," he whispers, his voice faded by his sorrow.

The suffering and misery he has endured have pushed him beyond his mental limits. No longer can he quell and contain the heartache and anger at losing so much. The son of Kratos lifts his tear-soaked face to the sky, and with anguish and rage in his heart, he shouts to the heavens. His cry stretches and reaches every corner of the valley, basking the land in his pain. Even as he sits up in silence, his scream still lingers and echoes through the frozen plains. His head remains high as his tears flow down his cheeks, not knowing of what is taking place on his father's body.

The curse of ash that has been dyed onto the Kratos's flesh has begun to dissipate. No longer apart of the living world, the horrible reminder that Kratos carried for his failings is now leaving him. Little by little, the pale white dust and remains of his family depart with his spirit. Beneath the milk-white layer, a tan complexion remains on the Spartans skin. Even his red mark begins to leave his body in bits and particles. Over time, the white and red clutter forms in front of Atreus, the boy with eyes watered, is unable to see it.

It's from a gentle touch on his face that he, at last, opens his eyes. Hovering just above him is a familiar form made from the burnt remains. His father, in a rough outlined shape, looms in front of him with a dust molding hand resting on the child's cheek. Atreus is in no way startled by this but instead begins to hold in his sorrow. In his father's presence, he can manage and control his emotions far better. The spirit of the Ghost of Sparta is silent when comforting his son, much to the boy's dislike.

"Don't go," he pleads, still unable to hold back the tears. "I can't continue alone..."

The shade of Kratos shakes his head side to side gently. While he does not speak, his child knows what he is implying. At that moment, the red flakes that were once his father's marking, spiral and move like a serpent in the air. Atreus watches as the glowing clutter of ash moves to him. Upon touching his flesh and dying itself onto his face and body, the color alters into an Azure blue. Even though it is painful, the boy endures it, accepting it as a last parting gift.

This would be the last act of Kratos. Not only did he pass on his mark, but also an essence of himself. So that a part of him will always be with the boy. Sacrificing what little power he has left, his astral form begins to ascend. Atreus can only watch in pain from the branding, and the loss of another loved one. With the sun's rays finally peeking from the clouds, the serene spirit of the God of War shuts its eyes when blessed by the light. After so many years of pain, suffering, betrayal, and so many other hardships, Kratos, at last, can find peace. As his apparition vanishes within the sunlight, the sound of a little girl cheering, and an older woman giggling can be heard.

"Father," is all that Atreus can say before sadness consumes him once more.

His head drops onto his father's forehead, his whimpering too quiet for any to hear. His grieving continues, having no sense of direction, he remains idle and unwavering. Once again, the barren plain of snow is devoid of any other sounds. Even the wind itself feels absent at this moment. However, it would not remain this way for long.  
Far into the distance, more rumbling and shaking echoes and reaches out Atreus's ears. Even so, he remains keeping his face down as he mourns to himself. It is not long after that the root of the sound draws rapidly closer. The earth around him vibrates and becomes unsteady, even the nearby rubble begins to roll and clear away by the quakes. The boy slowly raises his head to the phenomenon that's taking place around him. He directs his sights rapidly to different corners of the crater to locate the source. It is only until a massive, black shadow that blocks out the sun and covers him, that he realizes what is going on.

Standing taller than the mountains of Midgard themselves rises the world serpent, Jormungundr. The giant stares down at the young god and even leans its head towards him to get a visible look at him. Only a few dozen feet is between him, and the son of Sparta as the two gazes at one another. The creature frowns at the boy, already knowing what has transpired. He bows his head as a way of giving his condolences. Despite the kind gesture, Atreus, full of anger and sadness, cares little for his empathy.

"Where were you!" He questions loudly to release his aggression. "Why didn't you help him!"

Jormungundr backs its massive head away from the boy. A growl of pondering fills the air around them as it attempts to answer. Due to the creature's language, Atreus might not be able to understand correctly. As followed, the World Serpent still tries to explain. From its mountain-sized jaws, the grumbling language of the giants flows from its tongue. The sheer wind force behind its words blows away the snow. The boy blocks his face while also keeping his body steady from the powerful gust. Fortunately, the creature's response was understandable to Loki.

"I don't care about Ragnarok!" Atreus replies with his temper unswayed. "You should have helped him!"

The giant has nothing to say, and explaining any further won't do any good. Instead, he merely growls and stares intently at the despairing child.

"Just go away!" Atreus shouts impatiently.

Even while full of wrath and showing resentment towards the snake's unwanted company, the World Serpent is not deterred. Once more, the creature speaks in its booming voice, out of agitation, it speaks down to him. This time, the howling air is not as rough as before, only forcing the young god to close his eyes. Even while Loki tries to ignore the giant's words, the details in its dialect spark a confusing interest.

"What do you mean by destiny!" Atreus questions out loud. "What role do I play in this!"

Again, Jormungandr speaks but is now much calmer as he explains with more in-depth clarity. The Jotnar rambles in his slurred, rugged language. As he continues laying out the details of the current topic, Atreus can't help but be drawn in by the giant's words. At this point, the boy has grown used to the blowing wind and can keep his eyes open through it. However, once the creature finishes, its last implication appears to trouble Loki. For a moment, he tends to his own thoughts and becomes dead quiet. He looks back down to his lap where his father's chilled, lifeless body rests, and places his hands upon the Ghost of Sparta's cheeks.

"What can I do, that he couldn't?" Atreus asks himself in a gentle, ill confident tone.

Even though his voice is lowered, the World Serpent can empathize with the child's distraught feelings. Already with a solution in mind, the Jotnar moves its way to the far right of the boy's direction. Atreus lifts his head up, out of intrigue, he sets his sights to follow his friend's actions. Jormungandr, with his head looming right where Kratos's home was, drives its mouth into the land. The earth breaking strike makes the plains and fields vibrate, nearly knocking the boy over. The overwhelming interest in the serpent's intentions overcomes the child's melancholy. He leans in the direction of the giants head in anticipation.

After a few moments of rummaging through the rubble and ruins of the old home, the World Serpent lifts itself up. Boulders, snow, and ash trickle from the lips and teeth of the colossal beast. Once turning back toward Loki, it remains still for a brief second. Its eyes narrow as if aiming for something, and another growl of intense concentration rings throughout the valley. Having pinpointed its desired target, the snake opening its gaping, moss-covered jaws, flinging its slithering tongue forward. All that could be seen leaving its mouth are two metallic objects that flicker in the morning sun's rays. Landing just in front of Atreus is a pair of items that he hasn't seen in many years.

The Blades of Chaos, in all of their hellish and godly glory stand, impaled into the earth before him. Its chains dangle and ring subtly, but enough to prevent any from ignoring them. Atreus can only stare in confusion to the presence of his father's forbidden swords. Instantly he recalls the moments he witnesses the Ghost of Sparta using the duel, chain blades, as well as the dreadful tale of how they were used. Not even a god could count the many lives that those weapons had taken. The alarming return of those tormenting relics only gives the child more to wonder about.

In his moment of confusion, the World Serpent speaks to him. Due to the distance between them, only a gentle breeze can reach the Son of Sparta. His sentence was short and just as rough, but this brief statement strikes the child in the heart. His eyes widen, and his breathing becomes light as he rapidly inhales and exhales. What made this comment more meaningful is the similarity between it and the words of wisdom that his father imparted onto him long ago.

"We are the gods we choose to be," he recalls to himself. "Take justice, not vengeance..."

Jormungandr, despite being so far away, can feel what the boy is understanding. As he answers with a drawn-out nod, Atreus arises to the call of arms. Lifting himself up, while resting his father's head on the frozen earth, he begins to make his way towards the rage fueling swords. At first, he is wary of coming close to the weapons of a god. His footsteps are steady and light when approaching them. Even after all of this time, he has never actually touched them, let alone wielded them.

Standing above them, something within the blades begins calling to him. It was stated in the tales of old, that when the God of War engaged in battle, the voices of Greece would call out to him. Rather his enemy's be beasts, titans, or gods, at the sound of war drums, the spirits of Olympus cheered the name, Kratos. Now, he can hear them, but something was different. It was not just the voices of Athens, but also the cries of Midgard and of the other realms. Oddly enough, this time, they weren't calling to his father, but to him. To the same rhythm, they all chanted the name Atreus, the Last Son of Sparta.

While doubt for his capabilities plagues his consciousness, another desire helps fend off this negative outlook. He may not be as strong as his father now, nor not as well trained, there is still hope that he can one day face the ultimate challenge. That he can grow and become the great warrior that his father would want, and the god that all would love instead of fear. Most importantly, he can rise to stand against the Aesir, and free the nine realms from their tyranny once and for all. Clenching his fist, and overcoming his low self-confidence, the Son of Sparta comes to his decision.

With no hesitation, he reaches down to the chains that latch onto the hilts. Once grasping them, he begins wrapping them around his forearms. Just like his father before him, the chainlinks sear and burn into the child's arms. He groans in agony from the burning pain, almost becoming overwhelmed by it as the metal heats and flares red. Still, even with the tormenting sting, he presses onward to make the blades his own. After completing the first arm, he rushes to the next. Once more, his mind begins to feel light from the hardship, and his throat hurts from his screams.

At last, once he is done, he falls forward nearly fainting. His arms drop onto the hard, frozen floor, the clash of ice and heat creates thin steam. He pants in exhaustion, and with relief that the hard part is done. He lifts his head upward, looking to the handles of the Blades of Chaos. After a few more breaths of fresh air, and awaiting the coldness of the area to soothe his searing arms, he starts to lift himself to his feet. Again, he stands above the God of War's weapons. With a sigh of acceptance, he reaches for both swords simultaneously.

Once the hilts are within his palms, he pulls the swords from the stone floor. As if the blades were sentient and saw Atreus as worthy to wield them, a slumbering power awakens. From the razor weapons, a raging fire ignites from the sharp end of them. At first, the scorching flames appear the natural shade of orange and red but eventually shift to the same shade of blue as Atreus's mark. Both Loki, and Jormungandr look in awe at the Blades of Chaos, and their vibrant display. The crater glows from the untamed blaze, standing out in the realm like a star in the black sky. On this day of sorrow and suffering, a beacon of hope dawns.


	2. A Hero Rises

Years Later

With the coming of Ragnarok, the denizens of Asgard, have begun to make their move against the other realms. The paranoia from their Allfather brings chaos to every corner of each world, attempting to prevent the impending demise of the Aesir. The warriors of Valhalla have been summoned and now march forth. To those who recognize the dark grey armor with fur padding, and the horned helmets that stretch a foot above the warriors' heads, know to avoid these chosen servants of Odin. Lest they feel the wrath from the mad, god-king.

In a land teeming with forest life, where the trees stand at a near-identical height, lies a hidden village of Dwarves. What originally was a peaceful night for the short and stout villagers became a twilight of terror. They're herded and forced by Odin's servants to bundle against one another outside their now burning homes. Many of them weep as they hold onto their loved ones dearly, already accepting that their death may be imminent. It's uncertain how the soldiers could find them, despite their inherent ability to walk between realms.

"Any who defy the Allfather's wishes shall face his divine judgment!" One of the soldiers shouts aloud.

With no fighters in their midst, the people are powerless and unable to defend themselves from the mistreatment inflicted on them by Asgardian's. Those who have resisted are more bloody and bruised than the rest. All they can do is tilt their heads, and pray in tearful silence that all will be fine in the end.

"I found them," another knight calls out from a short distance.

All the soldiers turn to the direction of the yell. Walking down a dirt trail, and unable to fight back is Sindri and Brok, the forgers of Mjolnir. The two of them are dragged over to the rest of the militia that has raided the town. Brok's beard has grown long and has barely received any proper care in the last few years. For Sindri, the only real change is his shorter length of locks and facial hair.

"Get your Aesir, boot shining hands off me," the blue-skinned dwarf spouts.

While Brok is far more annoyed than fearful, his brother, on the other hand, exerts the opposite opinion. The physical contact with the warrior sickens him as he lifelessly lets himself get pulled away. So nervous for his life, he cannot form a proper sentence, and the wrenching feeling of wanting to vomit doesn't help. Once reaching the leader of the military force, the two dwarves are flung to his direction. As the brothers bring themselves up off the ground, the commander approaches, towering over them with disgust for the duo.

"You two aided an enemy of Asgard, and a threat to the Allfather years ago!" He preaches for all nearby ears to hear.

"And so what if we did," Brok responds, brushing the dirt from his smithing armor. "You big Ass guardian pussy!"

As if following a natural reflex, the commander rams his foot into the blue dwarf's chest. Brok, having the wind knocked out of him, does not have the strength to lift himself up again.

"Brok!" Sindri calls his brothers name in concern.

Without any warning, he too is kicked onto the gravel from behind. The two hack repeatedly due to the harsh blows and dirt in their lungs. As they turn themselves back to the savage soldiers, the two lock their sights at the shining blade of the field commander.

"For your crimes against the Aesir, and Odin himself, I feel death is a suitable punishment for you disgusting creatures!" He tells the limping dwarves with a stern look.

The brothers sit back, helpless, and unable to protect themselves from the soldiers. Brok stares angrily, haughty, and embracing what happens next. Sindri gets close to his sibling, but not enough to physically touch him, despite his desire to do so. Without thinking it, Brok latches his grip onto him to give comfort and to give his scared brother confidence. While Sindri is initially in discomfort from this, in this last moment, he lets go of his phobia and stares long at the Asgardian with a hateful frown. The brothers' share in a sigh as the warrior lifts his sword high to strike down at them, but unprepared for what happens next.

"Þruma!" A voice shouts from a distance.

Right as the commander looks forward, the last thing he sees is his demise. Moving like a bolt of lightning is a well crafted and aimed arrow. Striking the warrior in the chest, the force behind the hit sends the Asgardian flying through the air. Landing in front of the panicking villagers, they all watch as the life from him slips away as electricity courses through his body.

"What was that?" A knight questions startled by what unfolded before everyone's eyes.

Just as the soldiers turn to the direction of where the arrow was shot, whatever was there has disappeared. Only a small cloud of dirt lingers to taunt the swordsmen. Now anticipating a battle, the Asgardians draw their blades, with few of them bringing themselves into a defensive formation. A handful of them spread throughout the village, and with black bows stand ready to fire at the first thing they see. Whatever is stalking them this night does not merely wish to slay them, but to toy with them. At the corner of one of the men's eyes, a shadow dashes from the trees and brush.

"It's over here!" A soldier states, pointing his blade in the direction of the movement.

The Archers instinctively aim in that same location, all firing at once. As the arrows sour and meet at the same point, they pierce through the bushes. However, whatever tussled in the green has disappeared again. The bowmen look in confusion, knowing they fired in the right spot and now slowly question their aim. Brok and Sindri have already made a distance between them and the raiders. The two are conflicted with what they'd witnessed, but a sparkling sense within them believes they have seen such a feat. The footmen stay in a group and continue to look out for whatever is hunting them. In the opposite direction of the first sighting, another shadow jolts through the woods.

"No, it's over here!" One of the men shouts, shocked by the speed of their enemy.

"What?" An archer questions with complete denial. "What could move that quickly?"

Doubt and hysteria creep into the Asgardians' minds the longer they search. Even though they are confident of their sights being true, none can genuinely spot the threat, nor hit it. In time, the feelings of the villagers switch with the soldiers, with the people growing in bravery while the denizens of Asgard begin to be wary and scared.

"Bruni!" The voice shouts his next incantation.

From the trees, another arrow, bursting in wild flames, is shot at the bundling group of warriors. However, instead of hitting any of them directly, the shot slips pass their formation and lands at their feet. Upon clashing with the rock hard floor, an explosion of wrathful combustion blows the men into separate directions. Some launch into the air, while few are merely pushed onto their backs. A wall of fire and smoke now blocks the archers from taking any comeback actions. Now with their defenses hindering, the opportunity to go in for the kill has been open.

Though the Asgardians' rush to bring themselves back onto their feet, some would not make it in time to defend themselves. From the black forest, a heart-pounding roar to instill fear is directed at them. Only a second later, does the beast that made the noise lunge itself at them. The nearest soldier greets death before he can see it. A wolf as tall as a man leaps down onto him, crushing his skull within its razor-fanged jaws. The sound of his bones breaking and his last gasp of air leaving him strikes an emotional blow to the other men. The canine flails his lifeless body with such ease that it compares to a child swinging a twig. After a few moments of shaking, it finally throws the body to the side.

All shiver in silence as they lay their eyes onto the mighty beast. Even with the column of fire and smoke, the black fur of the predator does not lighten. Only the blood dripping from its teeth illuminates as it snarls at the raiders. The bowmen, while unable to see it clearly, know that something terrible has come for them. The Dwarves watch in awe, and while anxious in the animal's presence, there is a hint of glee. They were hoping and praying for safety, and maybe their wishes have been answered. Brok and Sindri as well are interested in their fury savior. The blue dwarf is amused by the chaos, while his brother finds slight disgust in the brutality.

"Fenrir?" One of the men questions in terror.

"Impossible!" Another raider responds, pleading for it not to be true.

Before any could take action, the wolf dashes forward to its next victim. While the nearest Asgardian is frantically about to swing his blade, his speed does not match his enemy. In the blink of an eye, he too falls victim to its fangs as they shred into his jugular. He shouts, only to have his blood fill his throat and muffle him. Demonstrating its immense strength again, it stands on its hind legs when lifting the Asgardian into the air. With one swing, it throws and slams him onto the ground, with such impact that his armor cracks and dints.

With the blaze still active, none of the archers can fire their arrows without risking harming their own allies. Among all the horror-stricken soldiers, only one steps up to the monster. Letting out a battle cry and charging recklessly forward, he takes up his sword and swings it at the beast. However, just as his blade touches the fur of the creature, its body becomes a cloud of blue smoke. His weapon cleaves through it and parts it in two, virtually hitting nothing. Everyone there soaks in the feeling of bafflement. The wolf is no longer in sight, in a panic, the Asgardians rapidly look around to where it could have gone. What they don't realize is the threat still remains next to the one who tried to strike it.

Down at the soldier's feet, an aggressive hissing noise can be heard. Looking downward, he catches only a glimpse of the source, before meeting his end. Extending itself at him is a white, king cobra, bearing a blue mark across its eye and down its body. With no time to react, the snake digs its fangs into his neck and latches onto his blade-wielding arm so he can't harm it. Even so, he swings his hand as best as he can and begins to tussle with it using his other arm.

Another swordsman comes to his aid, running forward and preparing to swing his blade. Yet, just as he does take action, the rushing speed of the snake makes him miss. Instead, his sword lands on his ally's neck, severing his head from his shoulders in one swoop. All watch in even greater shock to the event, the red juices of the deceased warrior spray out and stain the killer's armor. His comrade's lifeless body gives way to the dead weight and collapses, the serpent vanishes. None could see where it went, as everyone their dashes their eyes to different locations.

"Where did it go?" The blood-soaked warrior questions in fear when turning himself around to his group.

What he could not hear nor predict, is that the snake took shelter beneath the headless corpse. From under the body, the same smoke that clouded the wolf lightly pours and seeps out. For all to see, something beneath it begins to grow and shape itself. The body quietly rolls to its side as the mist-covered figure begins to rise. What is left of the militia are idle as they are unable to fathom what's happening before them. By their expressions, the bloodstained Asgardian knows there is something behind him, taunting him in his troubling mental state. For a brief moment, his breathing becomes unsteady and quick out of trembling worry. With one more shout, he spins himself around to take a preemptive strike. Sadly for him, his efforts were tirelessly thwarted. At the moment of looking back, his blade is knocked from his hand by a well-crafted, runic seax.

Now standing before all of them is not a beast, not a monster, nor even a human. What they all look upon is what looks like a man, wearing the fur cloak of a massive, black wolf. The ears of the long pelt still remain on the hood of the person who wears it. His gold-rimmed bow shines in the light of the fire, along with his quiver of the same quality. Other than his toned biceps and chest, his body is covered by leather and fur clothing, with chains wrapped around his forearms. Even though some of his flesh is painted with Nordic tattoos, the one that stands out is the luminous, Azure Blue marking across the corner of his face. From afar, it is the one detail that rings the many bells of familiarity in Sindri and Brok's minds. They know who has a mark like that, but they also know that man is dead. So, who is this stranger who has taken up the same symbol?

A glimmer of sudden confidence blooms in the hearts of the Asgardians', now that their misleading imaginations make them believe their foe is but an illusionist. So much so, that the bloody soldier becomes angry for being made a fool of. Brashly acting on his hatred, he swings his armor-clad fist at the Trickster. It is this moment of arrogance, that will cost him dearly. Without so much as thinking it, the hooded figure catches the warriors punch and holds his hand in place. What little haughty beliefs they had, were expelled from their hearts as they watch this stranger casually blocks the hit. To add insult to injury, the Marked Warrior starts to effortlessly bend the Asgardian's arm to the side. The stretching and cracking of his bones would not be the last thing he hears.

"Open fire," one of the soldiers commands.

Directing their bows and arrows to the Trickster, the bowmen all fire their shots in synch. Even with such precision and timing, they are not fast enough to hit him. Lifting the defenseless raider over his shoulder and holding him towards them, he uses him as a meat shield. Over a dozen spearheads pierce and penetrate the knight, ending his life as swiftly as the projectiles. The hooded figure drops his knife onto the floor as he pulls back his arm when holding the body up. With one built up punch, he sends the corpse flying at one of the archers. As if hit by a boulder, the ranger is knocked off his advantage point and plummets to the solid ground.

Utilizing this distraction, the Marked Warrior draws out his own longbow to present his superiority. As if using his muscle memory alone, he mindlessly takes out his bow and places three arrows on its string before anyone can react. Just as his enemies are about to counter his actions, he directs his shots to each squad of bowmen.

"Þruma!" The stranger shouts to activate his spell.

At his call, his arrows become consumed by lightning in a flash of light. As his fingers release the cord, his shots spread outward to different foes. The strike spreads beautiful, shining yellow colors across the air before striking a trio of Asgardian's. While the others try to prepare their own bows, their expertise, and reflexes don't come close to matching the hooded figure's. Just as their arrows touch the cords of their bows, their foe is already loaded and firing once more.

"Bruni!" He shouts to incite another incantation.

Furious flames bombard another group of Archers. Only this time, a series of explosions decimates the larger group in one move. A massive blaze is all that stands where the several rangers were, with their corpses burning as fast as dry grass. The Dwarves begin to lift themselves from the floor and smile in praise for this man's capabilities. They mutter to themselves with high hopes for his victory. Even as the last three archers prepare their bows, their efforts will be in vain. As they let go of their strings to launch the spearheads, the Marked Warrior has already predicted their trajectory. Dashing to the side without so much as turning to them, he miraculously averts the projectiles. Swerving around to face them, he holds his steel-tipped bolts in his fingers.

"Þruma Bruni Ljösta!" He yells the words of his runic magic.

Calling out the name of each spell, every single arrow he holds now embodies the elements of fire, lightning, and light. All must turn away from him due to the glowing radiance of his spells. When releasing the devastating bolts, he vaporizes the area around the remaining archers. An explosion of white, red, and yellow conjoining elements shakes the ground beneath them all. Unlike the others who find it difficult to stand, the Shapeshifter can withstand the rumble and stay firm on his feet. The blast of his spell creates a spire of smoke and gas and leaving the last of the Asgardian bowmen vanquished.

The Trickster turns himself to the remain forces that serve the Aesir, glaring at them unamused by their struggle to overcome him. As he places his longbow back over his shoulder, Odin's militia steps backward. The weight and the capabilities of this stranger prove to them that they have no chance of defeating him. The Joyous Dwarves laugh to one another aloud, even hugging one another for their hero's timely arrival. Even Brok and Sindri are cheerful for the events that are playing out. While the germophobic brother is still uncertain who is under the cowl, Brok smiles, firmly believing now who their savior is.

"It can't be," he mutters to himself in gleeful disbelief.

All seems to dimmer down, even the fires burning the homes begin to wither and die. The squadron of Asgardians lost not just the battle, but their dignity as well for being bested by what they believe to be a mortal man. While everyone stands quiet, only two options can be taken here. Either they flee, and in time feel the wrath of their Allfather for failing him or an alternative. As all the soldiers look to one another in question for what they should do, its the first one to speak up who rallies the rest.  
"For Valhalla!" He preaches when charging at the Marked Warrior.

Following his battle cry, the remaining troops follow behind, all cheering as they rush toward the enemy. In disgust for their suicidal decision, the Trickster holds his right hand out to the side of him. Just like the Leviathan Axe, his seax knife comes to him, pulling itself from the earth and spiraling through the air. Right as its handle enters his grasp, the first Asgardian engages him. Slashing the man's blade away, he follows up with another swing to his throat. Blood spews outward away from the stranger as he moves forward to greet the rest of them in battle.

"Wait is that-" Sindri notices and begins to point out a recognizable detail.

"How did that fucker get a hold of my knife?" Brok asks in poor mannered outrage.

As the battle presses on, using the convenience of the seax's magic, the Shapeshifter uses it as a throwing weapon. Whenever it wasn't in his possession, he would utilize his hand to hand combat to break the bones of his foes. Just to summon his knife and cut them down when they were broken and unable to strike back. One by one, each Asgardian falls to his ruthless cunning and willpower to slay them all. No matter if they were close or far, they would either perish by the blade being thrown at them, or by the Trickster shattering their bones and ending them with a swift thrust or slash of his enchanted dagger. Even when the raiders are close enough, their swinging of swords or jabbing of spears cannot land a harming hit, let alone a lethal one. Either from missing entirely or from their attacks being parried away. The villagers are entranced by the Marked Warriors skill and strength. Now they cheer in full confidence that he has no rival among these tyrant knights.

After just a few moments, the military force that was mighty enough to level a town was torn to pieces. The deceased servants of the Aesir stain the gravel trails with their blood and shards from their armor. Charred remains fill the air with a stench that would leave many revolting and resting on their knees. Some of the buildings have been reduced to ash, with smoke elevating to the night sky clouds. Pits and small craters of destruction litter the surrounding from the strangers spells. Many suffered, but no innocent lives were taken tonight. The people of the settlement are full of joy and spilling tears of delight. However, there was just one more thing that needed immediate attention.

One more Asgardian survived the onslaught. The archer who had a carcass thrown at him did not die from the attack. For a time, he was simply too hurt to move, but with the area calming, he makes his move. Pushing the dead body of his ally off of him, he shakingly brings himself up. The first people he sets his sights on are Brok and Sindri. A maniacal smile consumes his face as he stares at them.

"If I kill them, the Allfather will surely reward me," he tells himself with a deranged outlook.

From a small sheath on his belt, he pulls out a tiny shiv. Initially, he limps his way to the brothers due to his injuries. However, as he draws closer, his speed gradually increases in anticipation. The lunacy of seeing his comrades being torn to shreds, the way they were all overcome by a single man, and the thought of failing the Aesir and being grimly punished for it breaks him. All sanity has left him as he begins to rush at the two Dwarves with a hysterical laugh giving away his location. Brok and Sindri turn to the Asgardian, now in a panic for what he is attempting. Off to the side, the Stranger turns himself to the sound of the madness induced chuckles. As he swings himself toward the Asgardian, his fur cloak slips off while he reaches for two hidden weapons on his back.

As the lost minded soldier waddles with haste towards the brothers, he raises the knife over his head to stab down at them.

"For the Allfather!" He gleefully preaches to his lord.

Being so lost in his delusions, he has utterly doomed himself for not paying attention to who's near him. The whipping noise of chains pursues him, and as fast as he can draw a single breath, catches him. Instantly, a gruesome sound of tearing flesh ripples in his and the dwarf brothers' ears. His laughter comes to an abrupt and painful end as a small amount of blood spews from his throat. Brok and Sindri flinch at the raiders spitting action, but what they see behind him leaves them just as stunned as he. Digging their way into his back tissue, with unnatural blue flame emitting from them, is the Blades of Chaos. The soldier's flesh burns and steams at the agonizing impalement. The chains from the dual swords bleed an aura of the same shade at their wielder's command.

The brothers look toward the man who is crazy and brave enough to accept the burden of the God of Wars weapons. The face from their distant past stricken them with sorrow and relief.

"Atreus..." They both point out together, Sindri saddened by all that he must have endured during these years, while Brok is in relief that the son of Kratos still lives.  
The boy that became a man, by becoming a god, has returned. After so many years of isolation and absence, the Last Son of Sparta has matured both mentally and physically. His body has grown firm, and toned, but not too bulky. Even with his hair remaining the same style just longer, the stubble beard, and a few added scars prove his manhood. While his mark is not the same shape or color as his father's, being that it is thinner and stretches differently, it still pays a dear tribute to the late God of War. His rage in battle is also a well-suited inheritance from his old man.

With one hard pull, Atreus yanks the Asgardian away from the dwarves and flings him into the air. With a roar of anger, he swings both his blades and the soldier downward. The force from him using his enemy's body to crash into a charred building shatters the foundation and cracks the earth around it. What's left of the home, is now wrecked and used to bury the dead Aesir servant. His feat of strength and utilization of his extending blades impresses both the village people and the dwarf brothers. The townsfolk shout and cheer for their mighty savior.

Sindri can't help but begin to sob at the return of Faye's child, and his close friend of the past. He tries to force his face into his hand, but his phobia of germs prevents him from doing it. So, instead, he just weeps with his palms waving up and down toward his eyes.

"Oh quit being a pansy," Brok tells him while thumping him on the shoulder.

"You-you're getting teary-eyed too," Sindri replies with a sniffle.

"NO!" While the blue dwarf won't openly admit it, he too is thrilled that Atreus is alive and has come back. Water does form within his eyelids, but he jerks away from his nosy brother while wiping his drippy nose. "I just can't stand the smell of burning corpses!"

Their debate is broken off by the sound of the rattling chains from the blade. With a flick of his wrists, the dual swords return to his grasp. He sheaths them with haste, as though he does not wish to hold them for long. A sigh of contempt leaves his throat, being glad that the battle is finally over, and that he found exactly who he was looking for. He turns himself around with a cheerful grin across his face when facing his old friends.

"It's been a long time, guys..." He comments regretfully, hating the time apart from the duo.

Unable to contain his excitement, he heads over to them in a slow sprint. The brothers also walk toward him to meet halfway, both being just as happy. As the three meet in the middle of the dirt path, the Son of Sparta drops to his knees and pulls them to him. He wraps them in his arms and begins to chuckle to himself, overflowing with joy and trying to prevent himself from crying. Brok, while not disliking the affection, does show awkwardness towards the action by lightly tapping Atreus's shoulder. Sindri pats him as hard as he can while trying to prevent himself from vomiting on both of them.

"I missed you guys soo much!" The Marked Warrior comments in delight.

"Yeah... Yeah, just let it all out so you can let me the Hel go," Brok replies to cover his warm side.

"Oh, right, sorry..." Atreus releases them from his tender hold but remains kneeled down to speak with them eye to eye. "I guess you guys haven't changed a bit?"

"The opposite could be said for you," Sindri replies, gasping for air to keep his puking in check. He lifts himself straight when the feeling of hurling leaves him. "While you've gotten big and are still young, the years for us have taken their toll."

"Oh please," Brok replies, discouraged by the implication of getting old. "The day I get too old to smith weapons is the day Odin grows a big pair of proper balls!"

The mention of the Allfather silences the brothers. The two look to Atreus to ensure that them discussing the Aesir does not trouble him, due to what happened so many years ago. Of course, the Last Son of Sparta is quiet by the reminder of the Aesir, specifically Thor.

"Speaking of..." Brok scratches the back of his head as he brings himself to give his sympathies. "I'm sorry to hear about your father, boy..."

"It's fine," he tells them, but the opposite can be read off his frowning face. "I've had a lot of time to think, to train, and to decide my next step. Which was to find you two..."

"We'll help in any way we can!" Sindri assures while saluting to the Marked Warrior.

"Wait a goddamn second!" Brok intervenes, waving his hands around. "Why should we help you stole our seax!"

"Actually," Atreus giggles at the assumption when drawing the knife back out. As the Son of Faye juggles and spins the runic dagger, he explains his perspective. "I found this in your guys' old workshop, which means no one was present to claim ownership. So, I believe the phrase, "Finders keepers," fits my needs perfectly."

"Why you little-" Brok becomes incredibly conflicted with the Son of Sparta's snarky comeback.

He lifts his pointer finger to the Marked Warrior, but cannot bring himself to say much of anything. A part of him greatly hates getting a taste of his own medicine, but at the same time, has a sense of proudness for how well the boy has matured and grown as a person. Growling in frustration for his unclear opinion, he waves his hands in the air as he walks away to ponder.

Atreus and Sindri share in a laugh over the blue dwarf's annoyed reaction. As they do, the Trickster rises and crosses his arms when waiting for the blacksmith to cool his head.

"You said you were looking for us?" Sindri questions, looking up to the fully grown child of Faye. "Why?"

This subject alone is enough to lure Brok back into the discussion, turning himself around he marches back to them.

"I need your guys' help," he tells them in a severe tone. "But what I need from you too might sound crazy..."  
Now it is the brothers who chuckle, for absurdity is their plaything. Their astonishing creations were made from the inspiration of their outrages imaginations. Atreus raises an eyebrow to the unexpected responses but remains still when looking down at them.

"How crazy?" Brok questions, cracking his fingers for the challenge.

The Son of Sparta does not immediately respond. His desire to asks for aid is hesitated due to the outrages request. He breathes in deep through his nostrils when putting the right words together. Brok and Sindri, now sensing the seriousness of what he's thinking, now share in mindset. The two frown as they wait for what the young god wants to ask, but neither one could foretell what words would come out of his mouth.

"I need a weapon that can kill the God of Thunder..." Atreus requests, with a stern and hateful look, when imagining himself standing face to face with Thor.


	3. The Painful Truth

For many years after Thor's violent appearance in Midgard, the temple of Tyr had been absent of mortal and Immortal life. Following Kratos's death and Atreus's disappearance, the Huldra Brothers went into hiding and abandoned their old shop there. Firstly due to the risk of encountering the bloodthirsty Aesir and for the impending signs of Ragnarok. Most other denizens of the realms within Odin's reach did the same.

With Atreus's return, the three make their way back to the abandoned Aesir temple. As the metal doors creak open, the generation of dust and snow build up pours onto the hard floor. Atreus, from the outside, like his father, pries the gates open. While frowning in strain when holding it open, Brok and Sindri squeeze by his legs.

"Can you believe this guy?" Brok asks, shaking his head in disbelief. "This punk decides to disappear off the face of Midgard for over ten years, then shows up expecting godly handouts like some greedy whore!"

As the brothers reach their old stations, the Last Son of Sparta releases his hold on the doors. When following behind, the gates slam behind him, reverberating the noise of banging steel within the chamber. Despite the distasteful comparison, Atreus finds humor in the comment.

"I see your rough mouth hasn't changed, Brok," he comments, finding comfort when being near his old friends.

"You know, I'm starting to find Grey hairs?" The blue dwarf asks. "Especially in the unwanted regions, and let me tell you they itch more than the dark strands!"

The unsettling image stuns Atreus and repulses Sindri. The dwarf begins to gag and walk to the closest corner of the room. Although he does not vomit, he does lean forward, ready to do so.

"I did not need to know that," Loki replies, clamping his eyes shut in disgust.

"Well, that's what you get for taking so damn long to come back," Brok says with a stern point of his finger. "Especially when the people you know think you're dead!"

The distress in Brok's voice, stricken Atreus with immense guilt. He becomes silent, tilting his head down as the dwarf stares. The sharp tone of the ambiance even catches Sindri's attention, who walks back to his brother's side.

"I'm sorry," Atreus expresses. "I had a lot on my mind... I was sad, angry, and horrified, believing that I'd be alone forever..."

"Exactly, where have you been?" Sindri asks.

For a moment, the son of Kratos thinks back through all the years of isolation. So much has occurred in such a significant amount of time, no simple response could summarize the overall time spent away. When crossing his arms sternly, his already firm body tenses at the thought of the past dangers.

"I've been training," he tells them with a stressful sigh following after. "I've been traveling across whatever realms are available to me."

"Training?" Sindri questions. "For what?"

The improbability of what he's planning is enough to make him feel uneasy. Again, Atreus is hesitant to speak of his intention out of worry for how they'll react. Taking on more breath to ease his anxious nerves, he kneels down to them.

"To stop the Aesirs' reign, and prevent Ragnarok," he tells them.

As expected, the dwarven siblings are speechless. Even the stern Brok has his jaw hanging open in shock. Sindri is shaken by the absurd notion, leading him to glance back and forth between his brother and the Son of Sparda.

"W-wait, what?" Are the first words Brok can form. "I thought the death of the Aesir is what causes Ragnarok?"

"I don't know the full details," Atreus says as he rises from the floor. "All I know is that the world of Midgard, if not all the nine realms are in danger... If I don't stop it, a lot of innocent people are going to die."

The weight of the situation is heavy on the dwarf brothers. Again they are temporarily hushed by such words. As they think quietly to themselves, the Son of Kratos makes his way to their old work table. When sitting down, the past flashes back into his mind, rendering him just as quiet. The emotional weight of enduring so much hardship alone, as well as believing so much depends on him leaves him locked in internal turmoil.

"Why the hell do you need to be the one to stop it?" Brok asks with a sigh and a shake of his head.

"Because Jormungandr told me that I played a crucial role in Ragnarok," Atreus claims. "I don't know what's expected of me, nor what is my fate... All I know is that I'm at the heart of it all."

While he's explaining, he is unaware of the dwarven brothers slipping behind him. A sudden wave of heat reaches the young demigod's back. Atreus lightly pushes himself off the dusty counter. Right as he turns himself to the source, he sees that the Huldra Brothers have rekindled the old furnaces of their shop. The uncertainty in the duo's eyes only causes more worry in him. With their forge revitalized, the two stand side by side.

"If you need a weapon that can kill an Aesir, what about the Leviathan axe?" Brok asks.

"Thor shattered it..." Atreus says, leaning down.

"That redhead son of a bitch!" The blue dwarf in rage slams his clenched fists onto the table. His brother, urgently, grabs his shoulder in an attempt to quell his anger. "I literally died to make that weapon, and that masculine princess goes and breaks it!"

"I don't think it would matter," Sindri states while patting his brother on the shoulder.

"What do you mean?" Atreus asks, crossing his arms.

"Well..." For a moment, Sindri calculates how to form a proper response. He rubs his glove covered palms while slowly pacing in silence. As his brother looks over to him, the same thought comes to the blue dwarf's mind. A stern expression is shared between the two.

"You see, Mjolnir was created using scarce materials, rare resources that are no longer available to us..." Sindri explains.

"Even if we could make another weapon like that, it wouldn't do you any good..." Brok adds.

"Why is that?" A hint of annoyance carries in Atreus' tone.

"Well, a weapon is an extension of its wielder. While you have come a long way, especially with your abilities... You-" Sindri goes on before being interrupted.

"You wouldn't last a minute against Thor the way you are now... Even with such a fancy armament. If the wielder doesn't possess the strength to use it properly, then the weapon won't make a difference..." Brok adds, looking up to the God of Mischief.

An instant expression of outrage emerges on the young demigod's face. A sigh of denial breezes from his clenched teeth while looking away from the brothers. Despite his resentment towards the statement, his gradual calming shows his acceptance of the notion. Their words remind him of a similar quote that his father once told him. As he places his arm onto the table beside him, he rests his weight on the muscular limb.

"Please, don't get the wrong idea," Sindri pleads when rushing to his side. "You're not weak, it's just-"

"I know," Atreus admits, shaking his head. "I'm not as strong as him... Despite pushing myself to my limits, time, and time again for so many years. Deep down, I know I can never match my father's shadow."

"Whoever said you needed to match it?" Brok questions with his arms crossed. "Last, I recall you're not a pale old man who angry all of the time. You are Atreus, the son of the pale old man who was angry all the time!"

Although rugged and slightly insulting, the blue dwarf's words are comforting. A smirk forms on one side of Atreus's face. Although the brothers' can't see it, they can sense his spirits lifting.

"You may be a twig compared to your old man, but you've got a brain that makes his look like a lump of coal," Brok comments.

The rough compliment sparks an epiphany in Atreus's mind. His eyes open wide as he ponders more on the idea that has appeared in his head. As he does so, he immediately pushes himself from the table and paces the room. The dwarves are initially alarmed by the urgent circling action.

"Brain," Atreus mutters to himself.

"Uh..." Sindri and Brok are frozen in place while watching the anxious demigod wander about.

"I may not know how to stop Thor, but I believe I know someone who does... Mimir..."

"Mimir?" The Huldra Brothers repeat in disarray.

"I thought you put him to rest years ago?" Sindri asks, becoming ill at the thought of the Aesir's head. The dwarf turns away, expecting to let loose his previous meal on the floor.

"We did," Atreus confirms. "During Fimbulwinter, he decided he wanted to pass on, despite knowing his fate."

"Helheim..." Brok speaks with dread plaguing his tone.

The very mention of the frozen realm sends shivers down the Huldra Brothers spines, cleansing the sick feeling from Sindri. Thinking hard on the memories of the damned kingdom, Atreus stands with his arms crossing. The dwarves look up at him while he dozes off. Taking very little time, the siblings instantly realize what he is planning but aren't able to object in time.

"That settles it," Atreus finalizes his decision. "I'm going to Helheim to free Mimir!"

Without even a second thought, the Last Son of Sparta marches in a hurry out the gate they came in. Believing his actions to be brass, the dwarven brothers' stand in his way. For a few feet, the demigod drags them effortlessly across the floor while they push on his legs.

"Now wait a god damn minute!" Brok projects. The rugged pitch in his voice halts Atreus in place. "You think it's that easy to just fetch a soul out of Helheim?"

"My father and I escaped the Land of the Dead once, I can do it again!" Atreus claims.

"Barely!"

"Not to mention the absurdity of it," Sindri claims, hands shaking with worry. "No dead soul has ever escaped Helheim, nor has anyone ever just taken a soul out of it. Bringing back the dead has a price."

"Don't forget that even if a soul is brought back, Mimir wouldn't be able to maintain his presence for long," Brok adds while stepping back to the work table. "You'd need a way to bind him to the world of the living, using the Old Magic."

At that moment, Atreus sighs tiresomely while shaking his head. Lacking enthusiasm, he ducks his head. Sindri and Brok stare bewildered at his sudden absence of motivation.

"I was worried you two would say that," Atreus comments.

"You know someone who can help?" Sindri asks.

"Yeah..." The Last Son of Sparta looks back up. Once more, he begins walking toward the gateway. This time, the Huldra Brothers only watch as he takes a hasty leave. "I just wonder if she's forgiven me..."

As Atreus departs, the dwarves return to their stations. With the fires of their furnace burning as brilliantly as they did ages ago, the duo piles their resources.  
"Well, if you find any materials and ore while your out, bring them to us!" Brok says while waving his hammer around. "We'll make you some proper equipment, as well as tune-up what you already have!"

Without so much as a word, Atreus pulls the doorway open. The grinding of steel rings in the chamber and to the outside world. For a moment, he pauses while holding the entrance open. With only a glimpse back to the dwarven brothers, he gives them a smile of gratitude.

"Thank you for everything," he tells them.

With a small push, while walking forward, the demigod departs. The gates slam behind him automatically, but the floor shaking bang doesn't faze him. With minor concern for the inevitable reunion with an old friend, he stands in place. His fists clench as he releases a breath of regret. His body remains firm as he presses onward, preparing himself for a possible altercation.

After a few hours of traveling, Atreus finds himself on a familiar trail. A path of smooth dirt, with golden grass on each side of it. At the end of it, a wall of vines and roots intertangle with a stone formation. With the sun's rays just peeking beyond the trees in front of him, he stares nostalgically at the foundation. As he approaches, the past returns to him. Voices and visions of when he was younger fill his mind, halting him in place. He grasps his head from the pain of the words piercing his mind.

Once concentrating solely on the crying, Atreus's eyes open wide. For a split second, he envisions himself at this exact spot, over ten years ago. Looking back on that moment, Atreus had just lost his father. A vision of his younger self weeps at the entryway while holding his arms in the shivering winter. Back then, he desperately wanted to go to the witch of the woods but was too fearful. Shaking his head, the present-day Son of Kratos breaks his focus on the hallucination.

"It probably would have been better to go to her back then," he tells himself. "But now is no time to cling to the past."

Atreus presses on, coming close to the barrier while the vision fades. Grabbing a handful of dirt, he activates an incantation that he'd heard long ago.

"Greiỗa," he whispers with a wave of his now dimly glowing hand.

At his command, the plant life parts its way from the trail. Within seconds, as the vines glow and sparkle different shades of yellow and pink, the passage is open to him. He smiles at the calming display of magic before continuing. Although it has been many years since he's walked this trail, the garden, and lush forest is unchanged. The pale trees still have vibrant red leaves hanging from their branches. The shiny grass is lively and blows peacefully in the cold breeze. Even the open meadow ahead appears to be the same, as well as what lies at the center.

The tallest tree in the region stands unharmed by what transpired during Thor's visit. Based on his memory, all remains to be unaltered. However, before accepting that all is well, there is but one more thing to see.

"Heimili!" Atreus shouts out.

As his voice echoes in the distance, the very earth rumbles at the call. Below the giant oak, the hill begins to rise from the ground. Extending from the pit is a set of massive, leathery limbs. At the front of the mound, the round head of a turtle-like creature emerges. The gigantic reptile turns to look down at the Atreus. The two stare at one another while he approaches the old animal.

"You're still here," he comments in delight.

Meeting again fills the Last Son of Sparta with soothing happiness. Calmly to assure his intentions are good, he slowly extends his arms out to the turtle. With his hands brushing the creature's chin, Chaurli groans restful at the affection.

"It's good to see you too," Atreus says while still petting it. "If you're here, then where is Freya?"

At the mention of her name, the turtle becomes absent-minded to his presence. No longer does it hum at his rubs, but he stares off into the distance. Atreus looks at him in disarray for its sudden shift in behavior. He removes his hand from its flesh while stepping backward. With enough space between them, the Son of Kratos can now see what the animal is focusing on. However, an intrusion would prevent him from knowing what the turtle was watching.

From behind him, a thick vine wraps itself around Atreus' neck. Right as he grabs the root, he's yanked and dragged back. Fighting with all he can, it only takes a handful of seconds to be pulled several yards away. Before he can break himself free of the suffocating bind, he is thrown even further away. His body collides with a large boulder, the impact breaks and cracks a large portion of it. With the wind knocked out of him, Atreus plummets to the gravel.

Trying to catch his breath, he struggles to bring himself back onto his feet. Upon raising his head to the valley ahead of him, his assailant reveals themselves. Crashing into the earth in front of him is a hooded woman. Her robes, leather pieces of armor, and glimmering sword pale in comparison to one detail. Upon her back in a set of mighty, armor-plated wings of white and gold. So large in size that they could wrap around her whole body if needed. The sun's light sparkles on the feathers and stainless bronze.

"Who are you?" She questions with anger in her voice.

Groaning from the unsuspecting attack, Atreus doesn't respond. As fast as he can, he pushes himself off the floor while taking short, rapid breaths.

"Why have you come here?" She asks.

"I've come looking for the woman who lives here," he tells her, still light of air and with agitation.

"You are not of these lands, stranger! I see through your lies!"

Before hearing out what the injured demigod has to say, the hooded woman unleashes another attack. The floor around Atreus rumbles and moves. With only a second to spare, he leaps away as a cluster of vines drive themselves into the stone where he was. Clear from immediate harm, he reaches for his seax blade and hurls it at her. The subtle ringing of it soaring through the air is enough to alert her. With a swing of her sword, the two blades connect.

Repeatedly, with each parry of steel, the Last Son of Sparta would relentlessly throw his knife. Only for her to keep blocking and sending it back for him to catch with its magic. Until one such throw activates a force of energy within. The power behind both hits are enough to push her back, and send the dagger in the opposite direction. With a swipe of his hand, Atreus catches it, with another draws his bow. With smooth flowing motion, he swiftly prepares his arrows.

"Þruma!" He shouts as his three arrows pulsate with electricity.

With a flick of his fingers, he launches his attack. Roaring bolts fly towards the attacker. However, in the blink of an eye, a wall of stone and roots defends her. The crackling thunder shoots in all directions upon collision with her barrier. He holds his arms out, expecting to be hit, but is thankfully unscathed by the reflecting sparks. She, too, does not receive any harm from his barrage.

As the shield lowers, she waves her hand to invoke another spell. This time, pillars of rock along with dirt and thorned vines begin to form a dome around Atreus. With yellow energies emitting from her fingers, she clenches her fist. At her silent command, the elements slam down onto the Son of Kratos. A gust of dirt blows in all directions from the crash. At the same time, a quake that would make most mortals fall to their knees trembles in the field.

Slowly, the winged maiden approaches the ruble. All seems quiet, with only a single hawk flying away from the devastation. Looking upon the damage she caused, it would seem that Atreus is buried beneath the earth. She sighs tiringly in relief over her victory. Unbeknownst to her, this battle was far from over.

The same bird that flew away was rapidly descending at her from behind. As it comes close, a flash of blue light envelops the winged animal. As it's brilliance fades, Atreus exits the glowing orb while falling at his attacker. With the Blades of Chaos in hand, burning with bright Azure flames, he screams while preparing a savage swing of the twin swords. The hooded woman turns to the battle cry. Although she can direct her own longsword at the attack, she is unable to block the entire harmful hit.

As the Greek blades make contact with her own weapon, an explosion of red and blue fire blasts in all directions. Unable to withstand the explosion, she's hurled far into the distance. For the most part, she tumbles and rolls across the field. To stop herself, she plunges her sword into the earth. With one hard pull, she rises from the dirt to fight on. However, she pauses in place once noticing one crucial detail of her enemy.

Atreus Within a large ring of fire rests in a kneeling position from the high fall. As he stands, the Blades of Chaos burn in his grasp.

"Where did you get those?" She questions recognizing the dreaded design.

"None of your damn business!" He shouts while marching toward her.

As he walks to her, she attempts to take to the skies. Before she can ascend to a height beyond his reach, he extends his blades into the air. With his hands on the chains, the chain links of the twin swords wrap themselves onto her ankles. Turning the other direction, Atreus yanks and brings her down to the ground. Upon impact, her body bounces away, with her hood coming undone. For a moment, she remains laying to recuperate, not knowing her face became unconcealed.

Slowly Atreus approaches, with his blades flames fading away as he calms down. The sound of his steps alerts her to his coming, making her jerk her head to him. The Son of Kratos is all but frozen when seeing the face of his attacker. His hands shake, and the greek swords become cold by its wielder's reaction.

"Freya?" He asks, not believing his eyes.

The Goddess Freya, wife to Odin, and for a time ally to Kratos, and his son reveals herself. So many variables fill Atreus's mind with questions, leaving him stunned and vulnerable. In his resistance to fight back, the Goddess not recognizing the older Son of Kratos takes action. Holding out her hand, nature comes to her aid. The same plants that have been harassing the demigod latch themselves onto him again. He is forced back, the sudden tug makes him drop the Blades of Chaos. Now that he's restrained, she stands once more.

"You will pay for stealing from a dead man and his son," she claims, blinded by anger.

"Freya, wait, it's me!" Atreus attempts to reason with her.

Still unable to see passed her fury, she readies herself for a killing blow. Lunging through the air with a flap of her wings, she pulls back for a mighty swing of her sword.

"Atreus!" He shouts to her.

Not a moment too late does he speak his name. As the word leaves his lips, the Vanir Goddess stops her strike. The glimmering, sharp steel of her sword hangs with only an inch of space between it and Atreus' neck. Feeling the cold metal so close to his throat, he gasps with ease to his survival. The two stare at one another, both having an expression of trauma.

"Look at me, Freya," he tenderly requests. "You know it's me..."

The pupils in her eyes are alarmingly unsteady when looking down at him. A part of her doubts it to be real, and yet a sliver within her fast-beating heart says otherwise. The longer her eyes are set on him, the more she grows to accept it. For a split moment, she imagines a young Atreus. The comparison of the two faces is enough to break her from her skeptic sight. The overwhelming realization forces her to step away. Barely able to keep ahold of her sword due to her weak grasp, she stares at him.

With her other hand over her mouth, and with instant tears running down her eyes, her spell ends. Atreus is free from her binds and is now able to fully stand. Pulling back the blades with the chains and sheathing them, he remains idle, to give her the space needed to cope with the situation. Her crying saddens him, reminding him of the pain she was forced to endure from losing her son.

"I know I'm not the best person you'd want to see, but-"

Before Atreus can finish his sentence, a teary Freya approaches. With one arm, she embraces him as a mother would to her child. This affectionate, gentle action catches the Last Son of Sparta off guard. For many years he has not known such kindness. Unsure how to react, he simply freezes in place. However, as water builds and blurs his vision, he can't help but return the loving favor.

"I thought you were dead," she mentions, unable to hold back her tears.

"If you hadn't stopped, I would be," he replies with a smile of surprise while holding her.

As they pull away, she sheaths her sword. As the two hold hands, Atreus looks back to the majestic wings upon her back.

"How did you get your wings back?" He asks, astonished by the beauty of them.

"The Valkyries came to me," she says to him, sniffling with a happy look on her face. "They told me that you and your father saved them, and in return, helped me find my wings."

In the blink of an eye, the feathered limbs retract into her back. The armor on them places themselves onto her shoulders and body.

"Although I have my fighting spirit back, I am sadly still bound to this realm," she informs him. "But that doesn't matter right now, you must have so many more questions... Come..."

Still holding his hands, she gently guides Atreus to her home. Trusting her as he did before, the Son of Kratos follows. With the sins of the past no longer weighing on either god at this moment, the two walk together. For now, all they feel is peace, knowing that old grievances are no more and that they can move forward.


	4. The God Who Brings War

With the island turtle Chaurli resting below the earth, Atreus and Freya reside beneath him in her home. Although many years have passed since the Son of Kratos has laid foot within her abode, nothing notable has changed. The window off to the side of them continues to peer into the mystic realm of the Vanir. While they rest on her carpet, she tends to his minor wounds. The rejuvenating golden and violet energy flowing from her fingers seeps into his lightly tan skin. As she works to heal him, Atreus glances here and again at her.

"Thank you," he tells her with a one-sided smile.

"Of course," she replies.

She stares for a moment at Atreus's body. A sad expression befalls her as she takes notice of the searing brands of the chains on his arms. Even with her magic, she cannot undo the damage of Aries's binds. Her look remains as her eyes see every sharp and deep scar from the past on his body. Finally, she sets her sights on the blue burn mark on his face, that slightly matches his father's. As she goes to reach and heal the old wound, Atreus gently grasps her wrist.

"Please don't," he tells her with a saddening sigh. "This is my last connection to him."

The small implication of Kratos is enough to prevent her from affecting the marking. Knowing the blades were never meant for him, Atreus doesn't value them as dearly as the mark on his body.

"Did he do this to you?" she asks, aggravated by the thought of such possible abuse.

"Only because I wanted it..."

A sigh of contempt leaves her as she softly stares at the brand. Her fingers rest and hang as her magic fades from them. Freya rises from the rug layered floor and moves to her shelves. With conflicting thoughts of her past weighing on her mind, she distracts herself with cleaning and organizing. Atreus brings himself to his feet but keeps his distance. Although it's been years since Balder's death, he can sense that she still feels heartache for his passing.

"I'll take it that you heard what happened?" He asks.

"All of the Nine Realms heard what happened," Freya replies while organizing her pots and ingredients. "The whispers of the marked warrior who rivaled Thor reached to all ears... As well as his fate..." Softly placing one of her jugs down on the table, she turns to the Son of Kratos. "I'm truly sorry..."

"That's a little bizarre to hear..." Her sympathies leave the young god in mild confusion. "I thought you wanted my father dead?"

Guilt-ridden by the threatening words of the past, she turns herself to hide her expression of regret. Atreus steadily approaches wishing to bring her comfort. With a few feet of space between them, she holds her hand out to stop him.

"I did, more than anything," she confesses. "I was furious, never had my blood boiled so much, and yet..."

"Yet what?" He asks, taking a single step closer.

"I thought about you... I thought about what might become of you if you lost your father."

Despite her ill thoughts toward his dad, she bravely looks to the Son of Kratos. With a mother's gentle touch, she presses her hand on his cheek.

"Though I may have wanted vengeance all those years ago, I would never try to hurt you," now she looks into his eyes, with both hands on his face. "You were but a child then. You were not the one who killed Balder. I don't blame you for what happened..."

Finding comfort in her soft touch, he holds her hands while exhaling contently. His eyes begin to tear up, forcing him to tilt his head and hide the water in his eyes. He lets out a sigh to relieve the mental weight on his mind. However, a thought still lingers, one that desires to show her reasoning.

"My father tried to save you," Atreus adds. "Surely you can see that now."

Surprisingly, she has little to no initial reaction to his words. The Goddess continues to smile at him, brushing her fingertips on his cheeks.

"Even so..."

Freya quickly paces away. The emotional stress of the dreadful moment haunts her. She breathes deeply to ease her pain while leaning on the wooden railing. Understanding the sorrow of losing a loved one, Atreus keeps his distance. Although he cannot see it, the sniffling from her makes her feelings clear.

"I broke him," she claims with her fingers trembling. "I'm the reason my son became so cruel. I thought that maybe-"

"If you had let him kill you, you would be redeeming both of your souls?" Atreus presumes, upset over the notion.

Her immediate silence is enough of an answer. Saddened but relating to the idea, Atreus shakes his head.

"Freya, I understand why you would think that," he says to her while gradually approaching. "My father once told me of a time when he too sought redemption. He thought by leaping from the highest cliffs of his homeland that he'd find forgiveness for his actions."

The Goddess tilts her head as he goes on. He joins her side, the two stare off at the wall in the sulking absence of noise. The Last Son of Sparta clasps his hands, the mistakes of his past reemerge. She, too, can now see that he bears an identical pain, but unsure how.

"To truly find salvation, we must live and fight to see it," Atreus states. "To brazenly give our lives does not yield forgiveness or reward."

"What do you seek redemption for?" Freya questions, turning to him with her hand on his shoulder.

"To undo my many mistakes..." He stands straight and directs himself to her. "My father died because of my cowardice, and now I must finish what he started. Which is why I need your help."

The young god's implication catches Freya off guard. Her jaw lightly hangs open in nervous awe at the thought of his intentions.

"Surely you don't intend on fighting Thor?" She questions, grabbing onto his shoulders. "There's no way you can stand against him the way you are now!"

"I know," he admits shaking his head. His hands grasp her wrists once more, slowly pulling them off of him. "At least not alone... I need Mimir's help..."

"Mimir?" Despite the many years that have come and gone, she unconsciously recalls the name. Freya steps back with uncertainty. "I don't see how he can help..."

"He has knowledge that can help me, but he's in Helheim... Only with the Old Magics can he be brought back..."

"But, there's nothing left to bring him back with," Freya comments, now brainstorming over her knowledge of the Vanir magics. Back and forth, she restlessly walks across and around the center part of her home. Abruptly, she stops in place, eyes widened by a sudden realization. "Unless... The Ferryman's Lantern..."

In mild confusion, Atreus lifts an eyebrow to the Valkyrie Queen. Crossing his arms, he stares while pondering her hushed words. Despite his many years across the different realms, his knowledge of such an object is unheard of.

"The what?" He asks.

The interest in his voice pulls her focus to him. Yet, just as she turns to him, the two are drawn to a dire disturbance. A booming noise on the surface trembles the home of the Goddess. Dirt and dust fill the air in the room, and the rumbling makes bowls and utilities on the shelves fall.

"What's going on?" Atreus questions with his fists clenched and ready for a fight.

"I'm not sure," she claims with her sword drawn. "Something's happening outside!"

"Let's go find out!"

The Son of Kratos takes up his fathers shackling weapons and rushes out the door to the underground tunnels. Freya follows after with the same urgency. From the old passageway, the two manage to reach the surface of her home in secrecy. The kneel down on a far-out hillside to observe from an advantage point. The wildlife of lush trees, tall grass, and bushes obscure their location. From a great distance, the duo can spy on the source of the commotion.

"By the gods," Freya says.

A large squadron of Asgardian's march across the garden above her house. Their horned helmets shine in the bright suns rays, creating a sparkling display below. As they press onward, the source of the rumble is revealed.

Shackled in several pairs of chains and weighed down by metal binds, is a massive troll. The tusks on the left side of its face have been broken off. It's lavender-colored flesh, and black markings stand out like a single star in the empty black sky. As of now, given its current state, the behemoth is docile and unwilling to act. Although the troll's metal totem rests on its back, the juggernaut is bound and unable to take action against its captors.

"A troll?" Atreus points out, dumbfounded by the soldiers' absurd action.

"I had heard whispers that Odin's army was capturing any that may be a threat to his realm," Freya mentions. "I can't believe they have become this daring."

"That boldness will be their downfall."

Ready to engage them, he begins to sneak his way to them. Freya, without delay or pause, grasps his arm to keep him back.

"What are you doing?" She asks, hoping to stop him.

"Delivering a message... Stay out of sight, the last thing you need is for Odin to know where your home is..."

Before the Valkyrie Queen can interject any further, Atreus alters his shape once more. A flicker of dim blue light coats his body, shrinking him down until he's in the form of a black hawk with his markings. Due to the great distance between them and Odin's forces, none notice the spell. With that, the Son of Kratos takes to the sky. Even though his tiny body is hard to see, he remains silent while soaring over the heads of the soldiers.

Able to easily slip by their ranks, he perches himself onto a nearby tree. Returning to his original form, he stays hidden while within the brush and leaves. With his bow in hand, he draws three arrows from his quiver. Pulling them back on his bowstring, magical energy flows from his fingers onto the projectiles.

"Þruma..." He whispers with an exhale.

The cracks within the wood of his arrows glow a dim yellow and white. Within a second, the arrowheads are engulfed by sporadic electricity. Before his position can be exposed to the enemy, he releases his shots. The bolts fly across the field. As each one makes contact on the metal chains, the electricity courses through them. Over a dozen Asgardians, along with the troll, are electrocuted.

The sudden sparks draw the focus of the other soldiers, distracting them from who launched the attack. While the few Asgardians who held the beast at bay are fatally burnt, the troll is only agitated by the strike. Lifting its head high, the juggernaut roars into the sky in rage. Now with it's binds weakened, the massive brute tears itself free.

As the entirety of the militarized force is unaware, Atreus returns to his bird form and soars to them. Raising himself high to the sky, he studies the militarized force. Finding the weakest point in their formation, he darts downward at them. Undoing the self enchantment, he crashes down from the air onto a divided squad. With the Blades of Chaos, he hooks the earth, hurling himself faster and creating a wave of blue flames on impact.

Bodies fly, and screams are heard in the field. The remaining soldiers in disarray scramble to work out what is happening. Some choose to focus on dealing with the troll, while others are hesitant but inevitably charge at Atreus. Their battle cries carry in the winds as they race towards their end. Now that the enemy is divided, the Son of Kratos unleashes his wrath.

His blades ignite with a light blue flame, and with a roar, he extends them with the chains and swings them. Though the Asgardians try to block and withstand the blows, the searing steel of Olympus rips through their armor and weapons. Fire and wind dances around Atreus as his father's twin swords flail around him, almost forming a protective barrier around him. With more bodies piling on the battlefield, the Asgardians take a defensive approach to him.

As they form a wall-like formation with their shields to keep him in one place, their archers take action. The enemy bow users launch a barrage of arrows into the sky. The sun becomes partially clouded by the soaring, golden bolts. Before he can be bombarded, Atreus arms himself with a shield from a fallen Asgardian. Kneeling while holding it over him, the projectiles strike it. Some reflect and are embedded into the dirt, while others barely pierce the guard.

As the archers reload their bows, the Son of Kratos presses onward. With a swing of his arm, he launches the bulwark, making it spiral sideways at them. Even with a great distance between him and the enemy, he hits one of them. As one of the archers is knocked down by the hit, his comrades are temporarily distracted. With this short opportunity, Atreus prepares his own shot. With three arrows pulled against his bowstring, he aims his shot at them.

"Bruni!" He shouts.

As Atreus releases the arrows, they combust, darting across the sky as raging balls of fire. Upon contact with the enemy, the area explodes into a column of smoke and flames. A minor tremor from the blast nearly knocks down any nearby Asgardian. Even those who have formed a defensive formation are taken back by the detonation. Once more, he fires a set of his blazing arrows, another explosion knocks back another group of enemies. The remaining troops gradually back away from Atreus to fortify themselves.

Unbeknownst to them, danger had them cornered on both sides. As a deep growl blowing in the winds chills their backs, they freeze in place. Even Atreus discerns the dry snarl, knowing what it came from. Before the soldiers can turn to find out, their bodies crumble beneath the weight of a giant pillar of steel. The quake from the smashing attack alerts the Son of Kratos.

Swiftly turning towards the source of the shake, Atreus meets the gaze of the surly troll. Despite his choice to free it, the massive brute has no intention of returning the favor. Spitefully looking down at the Son of Kratos, the creature begins speaking profusely in its native tongue. Although very few can understand such an old language, the troll spouting with spit leaving its jaws makes it apparent that it is not grateful. Atreus, with his excelled linguistic talent, can understand such profound words with ease.

"So much for trying to help," Is all he has to say in response.

Before he can reply to the monster's harsh tongue, it pulls its arm back for a hard swing. Grasping its blunt weapon, it swings it down at Atreus. With only a second to react, he leaps away from the attack. Tumbling and rolling, he swiftly returns to his feet. Unshaken by the booming strike, he sets up his bow for another shot.

"Damn!" he tells himself. With his shot pulled back and ready to let loose, he aims his bow at the beast. "Bruni!"

Releasing the arrow, his magics cause it to burn in the air. Although he is easily able to land the hit, the blast of fire only causes minor pain to the creature's thick skin. Brushing off the embers, the troll rushes at him to attack again. Its blunt weapon steams and burns orange and red when being swung. Once more, Atreus averts the incoming totem but is grazed by the unexpecting searing steel. Due to his adrenaline rush, the Son of Kratos can ignore the pain.

"Þruma!" He shouts after releasing another shot.

With every arrow fired, Atreus infuses them with either light, fire, or electricity. Even with his precise aiming, no matter where his bolts landed on the troll, his enemy did not falter from the excessive piercings. From his distance, he could not nail a perfect shot on its head, for the beast would be able to block it with the totem. Sparks fly in all directions when it blocks the electrifying arrows. Flakes of burning ash fell and clouded the area from the burning bolts.

With the beast blinded from shielding itself, Atreus charges at it. As he sprints toward his foe, the Son of Kratos draws out his seax blade. The troll, lowering the bludgeoning pillar, sees his rapid approach. With only one arm, the brutish creature swings the totem in a sideways swoop. As it does, Atreus times the speed of the stone formation. Once close enough, he leaps up, landing on the pillar as it flies by.

Now in tight proximity, he jumps onto the beast's shoulders. With one hard thrust, he rams the seax blade into its cheek, just barely missing the skull. Right as he is about to grab one of his swords, the troll latches onto his torso. With all of its strength, it hurls him to his side into the ground. The force of the impact leaves a ditch and makes Atreus' body bounce across the field.

A few yards of space lies between the two, the troll strolls toward him to break the gap. Already, it prepares another swing with its searing idol. Atreus, feeling the rumble from its stomping stands with haste. Before the enemy can reach him, he draws his bow. As the massive creature stands before him, he reaches for his quiver. Only to find that he has run out of ammunition. Just as he looks to his back, his enemy pulls back for another swing. Having but a second to act, Atreus holds his arms up to block the hit.  
Taking in the full power of the strike, his firm body launches across the field. His brief time airborne is halted by a stone wall. Both his back and the formation crack at the collision. He falls to the ground, for a moment, the pain leaves him winded and dazed. Clenching his teeth, he groans while digging his palms into the dirt. Inhaling deeply, he starts to push himself up with his unsteady arms. As he does, the bones in his back and shoulders pop with a jerk of his shoulder blades.

Freya, from a distance, has observed the entire altercation. A look of grave worry is plastered on her face. She watches as an injured Atreus stumbles back to his feet. Not only does the troll still stand, but a few Asgardians remain, watching the spectacle on the sidelines. Her instincts tell her to interfere and help him, no matter the consequences. Even if it risks Odin learning of her regained warrior spirit. However, just as she is about to fully stand, a minor detail stops her.

Atreus stands, winded, but holding his hand up and to his side. As if gesturing for her to remain hidden. With his head tilted, a sudden chill in the air frosts his heavy breaths.

"If my father can best a troll, then so can I," he whispers to himself.

With blood dripping from its fangs and jaw, the troll is greatly angered by his persistence. Its totem burns brighter than before, and its growls reverberate in the breeze. Atreus also begins to show his internal wrath when looking up. Once he unsheathes the Blades of Chaos, the blue flames ignite. This time, however, a flicker of red is seen within the fire, and for a moment, dimly glowing in Atreus's pupils.

With a fierce battle cry, the Last Son of Sparta charges at the creature, which also roars in turn. Again, the troll swings at him. This time, Atreus slides beneath the glowing metal weapon. His reacting speed gives him but a few inches of space between him and the totem burning him. Once out of the way of the strike, he quickly stands and rushes forward. Using his blades and speed, he drives them through the creature's right knee, ripping through the tendons and even bone.

The troll in excruciation howls and caves on the torn limb. Before it can tend to its wound, Atreus unleashes a series of scorching slashes. Standing behind the beast, he furiously slices and flails the blades across its back and arms. In retaliation, the troll swerves to slam his hand down at the Last Son of Sparta. However, his unbalanced state makes his attack easy to avoid.

Leaping away, it only takes but a second to rise back up. Getting into a prowling position, Atreus invokes his divine gift. A blue mist of energy consumes him, transforming him once more into a mighty, blue tattooed black wolf. Using his body as a battering ram, he charges and hurls his body into the troll's only stable knee. The shattering of the monster's bones echoes in all directions. The juggernauts pain-filled roar follows right after.

Dropping down further, the troll catches itself with its arm and totem. As it temporarily rests, Atreus returns to his humanoid form. He rushes to the front of it, already wielding his father's blades. Right as he stands in front of it, the troll attempts to lift its blunt pillar. Before it can even make an attempt to attack, Atreus hooks his chain blades into the corners of the creature's neck.

Pulling himself up to its head, he rams his knee into its jaw. The stunning strike leaves it dazed, as well as disrupts the balance of its whole body. Now it falls forward once more. As it does, Atreus leaps off its body while unhooking his blades. Seeing the totem be raised above them, he takes the opportunity to finish the battle. Hurling his swords to wrap around the metal pillar, he brings it down with all of his strength. As he yells, the trolls very weapon crashes down on its skull, splattering blood all over him.

The troll lays lifeless by Atreus's feet, its power depleted, and body broken. This was not just a simple act of killing, this brutality is meant to be a message. The remaining Asgardians stare, shaken by the savage fury of the Last Son of Sparta. They all keep their distance, unlike others before them, these soldiers dare not throw their lives away. Each one knowing that it would not just be death they'd find, but pain and shame.

Atreus sheathes his blades when taking notice of this. Standing angrily and triumphant, he spits blood in their direction as a taunt of disdain.

"Is this it!" He yells with his arms raised. "Is this truly all the might Asgard can muster!"

The Asgardians look to themselves, some trembling in terror, others sweating in confusion. Even so, no one dares approach him, as he rants on.

"Are its servants truly as weak, AS THEIR GODS!" He rhetorically asks to add insult.

His blasphemous words startle the Asgardians, several surprised gasps can be heard in the crowd. Even after showing disrespect to their lords, the soldiers remain at bay. As they do, Atreus attempts to invoke greater dread into his enemies' hearts.

"Over ten years ago, the Aesir gave in to fear! Their paranoia and chaos fueled actions have brought forth their undoing! AN ENEMY THAT BRINGS WAR, WHO DOES NOT HAVE SUCH WEAKNESS!"

His voice booms in the ruined valley, extending to all ears nearby. Even to those of the Goddess Freya, who continues to watch from the nearby hills. His threatening tone is enough to make her heart race like drums.

"You may choose to die here, to let your bodies waste away, and to be forgotten!" He shouts to them, enraged. "Or you can return to your doomed kingdom, and deliver a message! Tell your GODS, your LORDS, THOR, AND THE ALL FATHER, THAT LOKI COMES FOR THEM ALL!"

As he offers, the Asgardians do not hesitate to flee. The name Loki haunts their minds, all of them knowing full well what it entails. Even so, to the Aesir, they will believe that he will not be easy to find. Given the many battles that Atreus has taken part in across the realms, the search for him will be far and wide. This will give the Last Son of Sparta time to prepare himself for the confrontation. Although he speaks of justice, vengeance bleeds in his heart. A new cycle has begun, and with it comes the god who will bring war.


	5. The Song of Despair

The danger of Asgard has been thwarted, but not without leaving their mark behind. The tall grass and blooming flowers are torn from their roots or smashed into the dirt. Dozens of deep footprints from soldiers and the troll are embedded in the trails and meadow. Whatever wasn't damaged by the Asgardians is stained in blood and littered with metal and corpses.

Atreus, still full of fury, stands in the ruined garden. His heavy breathing can be confused with primal growls and snarls. The change from wolf to a man still lingers in his briefly golden eyes. As each passing seconds fades into the past, so does his internal anger. As he stays frozen in the discarded battlefield, Freya approaches. The uneasy look in her gaze resembles that of despair.

"Did you- just call yourself, Loki?" She questions, hesitant to approach him.

The soft tone in her voice is enough to quell him. With one cooling sigh, he turns back to her. Now only an expression of fatigue lingers on him. He can barely keep his eyes open while directing himself to her. His stare of drained, mental absence negates him from focus. Able to acknowledge this, Freya reluctantly approaches him. She lays her gentle palm onto his cheek, and with the other on his shoulder. His answer will have to wait.

After some time of recuperating, Atreus makes his way back to Tyr's Temple. Freya, out of concern, accompanies him through Midgard. The two are very quiet during the tread. The Goddess thinks hard on who Atreus claims to be, knowing the legacy of the name. Atreus makes small talk here and there but doesn't receive a meaningful response. He, too, can tell something upsets her but does not wish to pry.

As the two finally reach the temple, Atreus swings the doors open, with Freya's help. While holding the entrance open, he carries with him the massive totem of the troll he slew. Although he uses both arms, he is not strained from the heavy load. Now near the forge where the Huldra Brothers work, he carefully places the pillar down.

"Brok, Sindri! Atreus shouts out, unable to see them.

Once more, Freya recognizes those names. She looks to him, stunned by the mention.

"The Huldra Brothers?" She asks in slight aggravation.

"Yeah, they've been good friends of mine since I was a kid," he mentions. "But usually they're here, I can't imagine where they could have run off to?"

Unwilling to heed out his words, Freya marches pass him. While rapidly rubbing the palms of her hands, her golden magic pours from them.

"Gløggr!" She shouts with a wave of her fingers.

An echo of yellow energy ripples through the air. The metallic surroundings reflect the mystic powers into every corner and crevis of the chamber. Freya's magic dances and breezes by the two of them. As they do, Brok and Sindri suddenly appear. The two stand frozen as their glamour has been compromised. Atreus looks down at them in mild confusion, while the Goddess has disdain in her eyes.

"Do you think she can see us," Sindri whispers, frozen with one leg in the air.

"As long as we don't look at her, we can pretend she's not there," Brok replies, also posing in a half step.

"You two!" She calls out in aggravation.

In a panic, the Huldra Brothers drop to their knees. With arms held high, they graciously and fearfully bow to her.

"Goddess Freya!" They preach, repeating the same motion.

Their attempts to sate her disgust prove useless, as she continues to stare down at them angrily. Atreus stands idle, unable to wrap his mind around what is transpiring. He glances back and forth between them rapidly, his eyebrow raised in worry.

"You two should be ashamed of yourselves," she says with disdain. "Do you know how many have perished by your "greatest creation"? How many lives were ruined by that cursed hammer?"

A spine-tingling shiver rushes up the brothers' spines simultaneously. They cease their gestures of worship and freeze when looking up to the Goddess. Sensing the hostility, Atreus intervenes.

"Hold on, let's calm down," he says, stepping in between them. "Freya, they're my friends, there's no need to be hostile."

Her menacing gaze now pierces his soul in retaliation. Even he's alarmed by this sudden shift of anger. He steps away but holds his hand out in hopes of calming her.

"They're the ones who created Mjölnir," she spouts aggressively. "Helped build the weapons of Asgard that are now being used to cause suffering across the nine realms!"

"I know..."

In the blink of an eye, her fury turns to puzzlement. Every fiber of her body is absolutely still at this revelation. Right as the Goddess ceases her anger, the Huldra Brothers calm themselves as well. They stand, stepping steadily close to Atreus for protection.

"I know they made a mistake," Atreus admits. "But, that was a long time ago, and they've been trying to make amends ever since... If it weren't for them, I might not even be here."

Although it's just a sliver, a soothing glimmer begins to take hold in her eyes. Her frown loosens, and even her breathing becomes softer. However, it is only a few seconds after that her fury reignites in her gaze.

"The mistletoe arrows," she recalls from when Atreus was a child. Memories flash in her mind, all appearing in order and eventually revisiting the moment of her son's death. Her focus steers toward the Huldra Brothers once more. With her glare set on them, the two submit and lower themselves more. "You were the ones who gave it to him."

As she uncovers the secret behind the source of the arrows, a thought sparks in Atreus's mind. He too looks down at them, but with a look that spells out his bewilderment. Sindri and Brok both swap glances between the gods in front of them.

"Now hold on, sister," Brok defends himself, cautiously rising to his feet. "I don't know anything about any mistletoes, that would probably be his fuck up!" The blue dwarf's finger instinctively targets his rattled sibling.

"Excuse you, you bl-blue toad!" Sindri quickly stands in stuttering defiance. "I was trying to be helpful to them, they saved me! I had to reward them somehow."

"By giving them the very thing that would remove Balder's immortality, and draw the forces of Asgard to us?"

With the truth blurted into the air, the room becomes absent of sound. Atreus and Freya, with eyes fully open and unsteady, are devoid of words to say. It takes no time at all for the dwarven brothers to notice their silence. They lock eyes with the gods, as the quiet atmosphere, sinks into their very souls.

"You knew Balder's weakness the whole time?" Atreus asks already suspecting it before. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Well..." Sindri is hesitant to answer. A memory of when he met Kratos and Atreus pops into the germaphobic dwarf's mind. Blood and violence reeked off the Ghost of Sparda like a repulsive odor. However, there was also another person that was on his mind at that moment.

"Don't you go silent on us!" Brok says, stepping in between Sindri and Atreus. "There were only a handful of people who knew of Balder's curse and how to lift it. If anything happened to Balder, you knew that Odin would send someone to fetch for us! So, what the Hel were you thinking?"

"It's what Faye would have wanted..." Sindri replies.

His hushed comment renders the chamber speechless. However, it's the son of Faye that's impacted the worst. An immediate sensation of heartache befalls Atreus. It had been years since he heard her name, and even thought of her. His body trembles at the mention of his mother. Even after so many years, her death on top of Kratos's still plagues his psyche. Freya can detect the turmoil in his heart.

"Even if it risked my life, I owed it to her to help her family," Sindri comments. "We owed it to her!" He looks to his brother, holding back the assertive tone in his words.

Brok's unresponsive behavior shows that he agrees. After the two come to a quiet understanding, they acknowledge the distress in Atreus. At the same time, when all eyes are on him, does he internalize his emotional struggle.

"How did you know about Balder's curse?" He asks, releasing a breath of dread.

Just as the Huldra Brothers prepare themselves to answer, Freya steps forward.

"When I learned of my son's fate, I searched for any method that could put him out of harm's way," Freya answers. "I learned that the dwarves had magics that could preserve their creations."

"Indeed," Sindri adds. "The crafting skills of dwarves is unmatched. No matter how much time has passed nor how often our tools and weapons are used, they never get worn down or rust. Some near unbreakable."

The Goddess's aggression ceases as the conversation carries on. She even approaches them as she continues with the story.

"So, I came to the greatest smiths of their species," Freya says. "I thought that maybe they could use their magic for my son."

"But such enchantments had never been put on anything organic," Brok enters the discussion. "No way in Hel, could we guess what would happen, so we refused to pass on the technique. Plus, we dwarves like to keep our secrets to ourselves. It's one of the reasons why Odin despises our kind."

Although Freya shows disappointment in the reasoning, it's quickly dissolved by understanding. She shakes her head, trying to get the thoughts of her son out of her mind. She wanders around the chamber to collect composure to focus on the issue at hand.

"It doesn't matter," she tells them. "What matters now is the problem that lies in front of us... Ragnarök..."

The mention of Ragnarök sends a chill similar to Fimbulwinter through their flesh and bones. Brok's body shakes as he brushes his arms for warmth.

"Atreus, why are you claiming to be Loki?" She asks, distraught over the name.

"Loki?" The Huldra Brothers question with the same tone in synch.

Even with all of the pressure from such attention, Atreus remains calm. At the same time, a small revelation has come to mind. Not once has he revealed that his mother referred to him as such.

"Because I am Loki," he answers. "It was the name my mother wanted for me, and even addressed me by it to her people."

Disbelief is painted over their faces at this startling news. Freya lightly shakes her head in denial, not wanting to believe Atreus's involvement in Ragnarök. Even the Huldra Brothers look to each other with worry. Yet, the two look more regrettably willing to accept it. Witnessing the reaction of the group, Atreus can't help but think he's being left out. Are they keeping secrets from him?

"Is there something I should know?" He asks, trying to hold back his frustration.

"You don't know?" Freya asks, becoming more puzzled.

"Know what?" At this point, the ambiance of mystery starts to weigh on Atreus's patience. "What are you all hiding from me?"

"We're not hiding anything from you, it's just-"

Before things can escalate, the Huldra Brothers step into the conversation. Their immediate intervention relieves a majority of Atreus's stress.

"The name Loki is not one that should just be thrown around," Sindri comments.

"Damn straight!" Brok speaks out. "Odin's hoarded the majority of information about Ragnarök, but what is known is that the "God of Mischief" plays a crucial role in it all."

"God of Mischief?" Several mixed feelings emerge from hearing the title. Atreus can't help but feel embarrassment from it. Unable to wrap his mind around it, he scratches his head while pondering.

"Perhaps not the most intimidating thing to hear, but the potential chaos that comes with it makes all the gods shit themselves," Brok claims.

"I don't care what fate has in store for me," Atreus replies. "I'll have no part in it!"

Atreus's determination to change his fate reminds the Huldra Brothers of his goal. Although they won't admit it, they still can't see it being possible. Not wanting to invoke outrage in Freya, Brok, and Sindri fall quiet.

"Then what are you going to do?" The Goddess asks.

"Succeed where my father failed," he replies. "But first I need Mimir's help. Freya, what did you mean when you mentioned the "Ferryman's Lantern"?"

"The Lantern?" Sindri and Brok ask, having similar knowledge of the object.

For a moment, Freya stands quietly while collecting her thoughts. The Huldra Brothers do the same, though appear to have more trouble conceiving the information. Separate hums emit from the three as their thoughts race. The Son of Kratos switches his focus between each one, with a dumbfounded expression overtaking him

"Long ago, there was once a man," Freya begins telling a tale. "His name was Hárbarðr, or as others referred to him as "Greybeard." He was a ferryman, who guided lost souls to Helheim. No one knew for sure if he was an Aesir or Vanir god, or something else. What was known is that he had existed as long as Helheim did."

"And he was a big horndog," Brok blurts out.

Everyone in the room instinctively stares at the blue dwarf. Every one of them with puzzled and slightly disgusted looks. Oblivious to the crudeness of his statement, Brok glances rapidly at each person in the chamber.

"You knew him?" Freya questions.

"Yeah..." The blue dwarf's past flashes in his mind. One such event appears that he'll never forget. "I lost my head a while back, and I met up with him afterward..."

"You seem, somewhat mentally stable..."

"No, I mean, I literally lost my head... I decapitated myself by accident, and he thought that shit was hilarious. We shared a few pints while having a very vulgar and fun chat about life, sex, and other relatable topics. After that, he decided to bring me back. In exchange, I did him a few favors."

Sindri can't help but bury his face into his gloved palm in disappointment. A regrettable sigh vacates his bearded lips as he thinks back to the absurdity of that day.

"Did you meet him?" Atreus asks the embarrassed dwarf.

"No, but that would explain why Brok took up boat making for a time," Sindri replies.

"Interesting," Atreus comments, ignoring Sindri's troubled appearance. "So, this Greybeard could bring back the dead, as well as take them to Helheim?"

"Yes, with his lantern," Freya clarifies. "An artifact as old as him. It was said to burn so brightly that all darkness near it would be purged. No dead soul could ignore it, nor run from its alluring flame."

The reminiscence of the lantern's power rattles Brok once more. Such a sight is unforgettable to any who looks upon it. This time, he and Sindri both decide to stand near their forge for warming comfort.

"To have such control over the dead, he must have been powerful," Atreus comments.

"Indeed," Freya confirms. "During the genocide of the giants in Midgard, Thor entered Helheim to slay the supposed Jötnar that lived there. The Ferryman fearlessly confronted the Aesir and demanded he leaves. Despite the God of Thunder's words, his status, and prowess, Greybeard showed little care and was even brave enough to spout insults at him."

"Did they fight?" Atreus questions, showing a keen interest in the story. His arms are firmly crossed while coming closer to Freya.

"No one knows the full extent of what transpired that day," she tells him. "All I can say is that the outcome of whatever happened, lead to Thor being banished. Cursed to never be allowed to enter the realm, not even in death will he be given entry. The only fate for his soul is the void, nothingness."

"He overpowered Thor?"

"Perhaps not overpowered, but with whatever magics he could muster, was able to gain the upper hand... Even so, it came at a price..." A troubling look befalls Freya's face. Dejection fills her eyes as the final detail comes to light in her mind. "Thor was able to shatter the lantern, and not long after their dispute, did Hárbarðr vanish. Leaving the dead to wander aimlessly."

As the end of her story is told, the same distressing feeling spreads to Atreus. A long exhale leaves his stress riddled body as he leans near the closest wall. For what felt like minutes, no one in the room can find the right words to fill the sound deprived chamber. Even the Huldra Brothers have nothing to add to the situation. Atreus, resting his back on the troll's totem that he dragged in, rubs his eyes tiresomely.

"So what you're telling me is that not only is the lantern unobtainable, but its wielder is also gone?" He attempts to summarize.

Freya, full of guilt for lowering his spirits, cannot bring herself to answer. She, too, lets out a cold breath of shame. Amid their silence and desolate thoughts, Brok thinks hard. His eyes squint, and his frown is tight as he delves deep into his thoughts. If left for too long, he might turn purple from the intense focus.

"Maybe not," he comments while lifting his head. All eyes turn to him, confused but still stuck in a semi gloomy state. "Lady, you were able to bring the head back to life, right?" Brok directs his stained coal finger to her.

"Yes, but I needed a head or a body to do so," she replies, slightly insulted by the dwarf's tone.

"That's a poor excuse..."

"Excuse me?" Her mood returns to aggression at Brok's comment.

The Huldra Brothers take a step back at her sudden shift in attitude. Even Atreus lifts himself up with concern for their safety. He stands close by to ensure nothing goes wrong.

"Hey, cool it," Brok frantically suggests with his hands shaking and waving. "What I meant is that your spells don't solely need a corpse."

"What do you mean?" Freya questions, gradually calming.

"Every spell can be altered into an enchantment, that's how us dwarves prefer to use them."

"That way, it's easier to apply them to our creations," Sindri chimes into the topic. "Whether it be our tools, our weapons-"

"Or anything we forge, such as a lantern," Brok finishes.

Slowly and surely, both Atreus and Freya pick up on the same wavelength as the dwarven brothers. Their fascination and intrigue towards their hints draw them to form a tighter group. Now they stand together as the topic presses on.

"And let me tell you, I got a pretty damn good look at Greybeards nightlight," Brok jokingly states. "I've got the thing memorizes as clear as Mimir's shiny bald head!"

"Are you saying that you can remake it?" Atreus questions, hesitant to be hopeful.

"Maybe not an exact replica, but a variant is possible."

"It won't be as powerful as the original, but with the right materials and enchantments, it should be enough to hold at least one soul," Sindri adds.

Though the chance is slim, it is more fulfilling than an empty promise. The Son of Kratos cannot help but smile at the sliver of hope presented to him. Even Freya is speechless at how well the dwarves plan is. However, looking upon Atreus's high spirits returning, she too shows a light smirk.

"Which means we have a chance at dragging Mimir's bald ass out of Helheim!" Brok preaches. Quickly realizing how ecstatic he's behaving, he quickly tones down his excitement. Coughing away his enthusiastic attitude, he crosses his arms and frowns. "Not a big deal for the Huldra Brothers, of course..."

"You're fine with creating something that's not a weapon?" Sindri sarcastically asks, hinting back to the past.

"Oh don't give me that crap, it won't be my first time... Besides-" The blue dwarf glances up at an uplifted Atreus, but quickly looks away. Finding his warm aura, both comforting and unsettling. "The kid wants it, not me!"

"Then we have a path to go off of," Atreus says in relief. "What do I need to get?"

The eagerness in Atreus puzzles Freya for a moment. Part of her is still conflicted with how much the Son of Kratos has changed over the years. The question of what he's endured all this time rambles in her thoughts. Though he does not take much after his father, a piece of the Ghost of Sparta lingers in him. Something that she also finds just as unsettling.

"Well, for starters, what the fuck is that thing you dragged in here?" Brok asks, pointing to the tree thick pillar in the chamber.

"A troll tried to kill me," Atreus says, leaving out the detail of him starting the fight. "I was hoping you guys could make something out of it."

"You do know that trolls are almost extinct, right?" Sindri asks.

"He started it..."

Though the dwarves can see through his partial lie, neither one tries to discourage his actions. Neither one can resist the craftsmanship of the trolls' weapon. This being made of metal and black stone, unlike anything that they seen been used before. The refined sigils carved into it. It does not take them long to study the quality of the pillar.

"I believe you, and I have the same idea," Sindri comments when looking at his brother.

"Damn straight," Brok agrees, holding out a hand to shake with.

As to be expected, Sindri is unable to bring himself to grasp Brok's, bare palm. Even with gloves, the thought of the gesture begins to already sicken him. Before he can pull back, his sibling forces the shake. Sindri gags, and shakes his head uncontrollably. Even so, now already committed, he continues.

"I-I can do this," he tells himself in disgust.

Brok initially found amusement over his brother's sickening attitude. Yet, it does not take him long to get irritable by it. He releases his grasp and moves to his forge. Sindri remains back, resting himself on the table to quell himself of his distaste.

"Would you mind bringing the totem closer," he asks.

Atreus nods eagerly, before rushing over to the troll's weapon. In the same way as before, he lifts the front half onto his shoulder. They all watch as he drags it over to the corner of the workshop. A look of fascination is shared between the three as they watch. He drops it down, rumbling the temple around them.

"You've grown so much," Freya comments.

"Time and the oncoming end of the world will do that to you," he replies jokingly. "Which is why we need your help..." He approaches her, stretching his sore limbs that still ache from the battle before. "The only way we're going to make it through this is together." Like his father, he extends a hand of truce. Wishing to make amends for a better future.

Freya is silent over his speech. Though there is truth in his words, there are also complications along with it. To fight against the Aesir again, and to endanger herself and those around her weighs heavy on her thoughts. As well as working with those she once had harsh prejudice against. What is to come from Atreus's goal, is it truly for justice, or is it for revenge? What kind of darkness and chaos lie in store for them in the final days? The one thing that stands out among her ill thoughts is her one past mistake. There can be no peace with Asgard. Only their defeat will bring serenity back to the realms.

"Though I still have anger in my heart, I will confine it for you," she tells him. The two grasp arms and lightly shake.

"When this is all over, I hope you'll find peace," he replies.

With their alliance forged, the Huldra Brothers get to work on dismantling the totem. They hammer away at its metal, and chisel at its thick stone. The sudden commotion draws Freya and Atreus's focus.

"While we work on the schematics and prints for the spells and design, we'll need you to obtain an Asgardian helmet," Sindri tells him.

"Why so specific with the headwear?" Atreus asks.

"It'll make sense once you make it back."

"Then, consider it done."

Atreus takes his leave, making his way towards the exit of the temple with haste. An exultant wave of emotions flows through him, now that he has a chance of reaching his goals. He now has a path to set himself on. Though danger awaits him, the price for his hardships may just pay for more than anything he has sacrificed. Perhaps he may find some semblance of redemption for his past failings.

"Don't kill each other while I'm gone," he spouts humorously.

"Tell that to the lady with the big ass sword!" Brok shouts, hinting at Freya. "Which could have been made better."

A few miles out from Tyr's temple, and the Son of Kratos continues to search for any lingering bodies or Asgardians around. The land has fallen quiet by the uproar of Ragnarök. Most denizens are hiding from either the soldiers or by any terror's brought upon by the twilight event. Or Atreus may have overdone it with his scare tactic and struck fear in more than just Valhalla's armies. Even so, this brings the Last Son of Sparta relief to know things will be more harmonious. Even if only temporary.

To his luck, and to reignite his skepticism, he finds a lone corpse of an Asgardian scout. The damage done to the body makes it hard to make an accurate guess. Not only are there teeth and claw marks shred into it, but also magical properties. Its flesh looks drained of any natural fluids, with a purple ooze bleeding from the wounds instead of blood. The toxic liquid makes it clear to Atreus that this kill was recent, and the attacker could still be near.

Just as he is about to draw his blades, a sound from his past quells his nerves. Soothing, but with melancholy following behind it.

"Singing?" He questions in minor disbelief.

This voice is familiar, unmistakable. The closer it gets, the more Atreus can make out who it is. However, its lingering presence soon begins to affect him. Along with the song, came sounds and voices that played along with the tune. With every second that it remains, is another second that pain builds in his mind and heart. He groans as his history returns to plague his spirit. The anguishing sensation drops him to one knee as he digs his fingers into his skull. The clashing of blades, roars of hatred and wrath, and even helpless screams burst in his mind.

 _Is this not what you wanted, revenge?_

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" Atreus screams with enough force to awake all of Midgard.

Standing once more, the singing ceases, the sounds and agonizing affliction disperse with it. No one is near, only the noises of fleeing wildlife surround The Son of Kratos. Unintentionally, Atreus realizes that his arms sizzle and steam from his brief outburst. His arms tremble by the gift passed down to him by his father. A part of him becomes weak for just tapping into the cursed power. Even to this day, he can barely control the Rage of Sparta. To which he refuses to rely on. Fearful that he may be tempted to go blind with it, just as his father did before him.


	6. The Choking Realm

Chapter 6: The Choking Realm

Shaken to his bones by the traumatic, invisible force, Atreus's body freezes in place. Cold sweat drips from his head, and his breathing is broken and fast-paced. He still can barely maintain control of his unsteady arms. Even forming simple fists proves to be a challenge at this moment. No matter how hard he tries, the visions inflicted on him won't abandon his mind. It is only the enchanting sight before him that breaks him of his panicked trance.

Across a small pond from him, a hooded figure looks at him. This woman's vibrant amber eyes lock onto his, both startled by the other. Neither one feels threatened but is instead drawn in by a sense of wonder for the other. The tormenting dread in Atreus gradually fades the longer he stares at this blonde-haired maiden. His self-awareness returns, and the nerve-racking shivers cease. Now driven by intrigue, he tries to approach her.

"Hey," he calls out.

The woman flinches at his greetings. Although she does not show to be frightened, her first instinct is to run from him.

"Hey, wait!" he says aloud.

As she dashes off in the opposite direction, a peculiar detail appears. Streams of Emerald light bleed from her white hooded robes. The further she goes, the more her form fades. In the blink of an eye, the woman is gone. All that is left is the streaks of emerald magic glimmering the frozen air. Atreus is frozen in awe by the trick.

"Who was she?" He asks as the chilling winds settle.

Although curiosity clung to him like a hook in his flesh, he ignored the interaction between him and the mysterious maiden. After retrieving the Asgardian helmet, he hurried back to the Temple of Tyr. The Huldra Brothers wait for his return, having unknown interests in the attire of Valhalla's soldiers. While he does wish to arrive as soon as possible, Atreus still finds himself getting distracted by a thought.

Before traversing the long bridge of the temple, he stops himself at a clear reflection of himself. Though the Asgardian metal of the temple has stood for many years, the time has not hindered its shiny quality. When seeing himself in the reflective metals shine, he comes up with an idea. Taking a glance at the Asgardian helmet in hand, and looking back, he decides to put it on.

The pristine craft of it allows him to slip it on with ease. The golden horned helmet weighs nothing when resting on his head. For a moment, he stands, studying his appearance with it on. He takes different fighting poses, stands in different positions and angles. Finally, with arms held open, he personifies the arrogance of the Aesir.

"I am Loki, God of Mischief!" He spouts with pretend hubris. "Kneel to me!"

It takes the Son of Kratos no more than a few seconds to regret his actions. With slight disgust for his appearance and of his performance, he yanks the horned helm off. Shaking his head, he makes his way to the heart of the temple.

When Atreus pries the gates open, he can hear the dwarves at work. The heat from the forge warms his flesh, and the smell of fire and coal relaxes his mind. The clashing of steel and sparks entrance him. Now not so eager to be swift with his delivery, he wanders around the room contently and with nostalgic comfort. Just like when he was a child, Tyr's temple gives him relief, the same kind only found in one's home.

"Welcome back, Atreus," Sindri greets, but remains drawn to his and Brok's work.

As Atreus moves around, he notices two crucial details. The absence of Freya and of the troll's totem piques his interest. Even when closely examining the chamber, there's no trace of either.

"Where's Freya?" He asks.

"Odin's ex said she had to speak with the tree's, or some shit," Brok vulgarly claims.

"She's communing with nature," Sindri clarifies. "The Vanir are very intuned with the elemental spirits. The Gods receive knowledge, warnings, and secrets of whatever realm the spirits reside in."

"I see?" Atreus thinks back to Freya's bond with the animals of the forests. As well as her magics influencing the world around her.

Just as his mind spaces out, he notices a remnant of his past within the room. Broken, but salvageable, the Guardian Shield that his father once possessed rests on the dwarves' workbench. Just a single glance at the armament freezes the Son of Kratos in place. Memories of the Ghost of Sparta battling Thor flash in his head. The sound of thunder bangs in his heart as he thinks back to the cataclysm of that day.

The effort needed to release himself from his heartwrenching trance makes him shake. Thankfully, the Huldra Brothers are too intensely focused on their work to see it. A handful of seconds pass before Atreus can clear away the trauma in his soul.

"Where did you get that?" He asks.

The Huldra Brothers direct their eyes to the Guardian Shield. Their work comes to a halt over what Atreus spots. However, It is Sindri who walks over to the bench and lifts it. Pieces and shards break off by the gentle touch of the dwarf.

"When we went searching for you and Kratos, all those years ago, we were only able to find this in the rubble," Sindri answers.

The dwarf holds the broken bulwark to Atreus. The longer the Last Son of Sparta stares at his father's shield, the more anxious he becomes. Although he begins to reach for it, he cannot bring himself to actually interact with the equipment. His fingers tremble as they hover over it.

"We've been holding onto it for some time," Sindri mentions. "Hoping that perhaps, you or your father would return to claim it... After all, with your mother's axe nowhere to be found, we just knew that you or both you and your father had to be out there somewhere..."

"Speaking of, where did you leave the rest of the axe?" Brok asks, stepping into the conversation.

"It doesn't matter..." Atreus spouts to drop the subject.

The Son of Kratos knows full well where the remnants of his parents' axe are, as well as where he spread his father's ashes. Although he wants to answer truthfully, with a sliver of hope that his mother's blade may be reforged. Another side of him haunts and brings this optimism down. While not believing it impossible, if Faye saw what he had become, would he be worthy of wielding it?

"It was broken beyond repair," looking away from the dwarves' when lying.

For a moment, no one speaks. The air becomes bitter and thin from the harsh tension. Atreus, in sternness, crosses his arms and skulks with his guilty thoughts. Sindri finds this claim to be startling and ultimately shatters his hope of the Leviathan being reborn.

"We once thought the same thing," Sindri comments, glancing at his brother. "That our brotherhood couldn't be fixed, but a kind-hearted boy told us otherwise."

Greatly troubled by this, the dwarves refuse to pester the topic any further. Even with Brok showing agitation with a growling sigh towards it, he still moves on from the discussion. Regret fills Atreus's soul for snapping at them. It instantly weighs on him like a growing boulder on his shoulders.

"Brok, Sindri, I-"

"No need to explain," Brok interjects. "We've built great weapons before, it won't stop now... Speaking of..."

A sudden tether of thoughts draws the Huldra Brothers to their forge. With their large pair of metal tongs, they reach into the scorching heart of their forge. From within, they pull out two searing metal gauntlets. Quickly, the dwarves work to finish their new masterpiece. Hammering away at them, soaking them in oil and water, and tinkering with them by hand when cooled off. After adding leather and fur on the inside, they finish.

"Boy," Brok calls out.

The Huldra Brothers face Atreus, each holding one part of the pair of gauntlets. The size of the bracers is too heavy for one dwarf to carry alone. Like the Guardian shield, they share a similar mechanism to their predecessor. The spiraling nordic symbol of war is branded onto the device, including the dwarves' signature emblem on the other side. The knuckles of the gauntlets are sharpened and have three smaller blades molded to them.

"Try these on," Brok offers.

Together, the two in synch their toss of the gauntlets to Atreus. Not only does the Son of Kratos catch them, but he actually slides his arms into them while in the air. The mechanisms within automatically attach themselves to his forearms. However, the magical chains from his father's blades latch around the bracers in an instant. As a reminder of his pact with them. Atreus pays no mind to this and continues admiring the craftsmanship of them. A look of admiration peeks out of his eyes, impressed by the design and the functions.

"Although we couldn't restore Kratos's shield, we were able to get inspiration from it," Sindri comments.

"We took what was salvageable of the old man's bulwark, and made modifications to best suit your fighting style," Brok adds.

"Although it won't break the strength gap between you and your father, it will add an extra punch to your... Well, punches..." Sindri throws a poorly formed jab when telling his pun.

While Atreus lightly chuckles at the attempt to be funny, Brok squints with irritation at his sibling.

"Don't ever tell a pun, again..." Brok says, slowly shaking his head. "Like the previous shield, it will absorb blunt pressure or force, and if you time it right, you'll be able to redirect it back at the enemy. Amplifying your unarmed hits."

To test the durability and raw power of his gauntlets, Atreus clashes the knuckles of them together. With all his might, he manages to send a burst of wind and ringing of metal across the chamber. The Huldra Brothers are nearly knocked over by the sudden bang. The Last Son of Sparta smiles in awe by the new introduction of his arsenal.

"Incredible," he compliments. "Do you have a name for them?"

After they steady themselves from the glove's impact, Brok and Sindri look to one another with proud grins on their faces. Both crossing their arms boastfully, they look up to an awaiting Atreus.

"Trolls Bane," they answer.

"I like it," Atreus replies.

"That's good because you're going to need them where we're sending you," Sindri says.

"And where's that?"

In the blink of an eye, Brok appears behind the Son of Kratos. The Dwarf's already in possession of the Asgardian Helmet that was needed. Atreus darts his eyes down to him the moment he feels the helmet leave his belt.

"Niflheim, the first realm of the Dwarves," Brok answers while examining the helm. "We need you to get Ivaldi's tools."

"In his workshop?" Atreus asks. "But my father and I searched through that place, we didn't see any smithing tools."

"Of course," Sindri comments. "That's because his equipment isn't in his shop, but beneath it."

"When Ivaldi retaliated against Odin, he delved deep into the world of Niflheim, in search of ancient powers that he could harness for his inventions," Brok mentions.

As he continues on, he begins making adjustments to the helmet. Prying off the overly large horns, hammering at the cap, and grinding and smoothing it. "Which is what inevitably caused the toxic shit storm that drove the dwarves away."

"With no one to get in his way, Odin had some of his soldiers sneak into the realm to uncover Ivaldi's secrets," Sindri continues, assisting his brother as they explain the past. "He had used his magic to enchant his soldiers' armor and helmets to be resistant towards the toxins."

"But he didn't take into consideration the randomly changing maze," Atreus comments, thinking back to his time there before. "So none of his men managed to leave, nor reach Ivaldi's workshop."

With their work nearly complete, the dwarves give a hum in agreement. The two blow on their new piece of hardware and Sindri finishes with a wipe down for sanitary reasons. The germaphobic dwarf now carries what is left of the helm. A slim mouth guard, with small gold cylinders on each side, rests in his palms.

"If we're going to craft the lantern, we'll need Ivaldi's tools," Sindri tells Atreus.

"But the smoke below is much more hazardous," Brok adds. "You'll need this mask if you wish to survive long enough to get them."

Sindri tosses the mask to Atreus, who catches it with a swipe of his hand. When placing it over his jaw, much like Trolls Bane, it latches itself around his skull to fit perfectly. The sound of his voice when inhaling deeply is filtered by the metal mouthpiece. His exhaling releases clean fumes from the cylinders into the air.

"How does it feel?" Sindri asks.

"It'll take me some time to get used to," Atreus replies, breathing slowly and holding onto the mask. "But it's not that bad, I've never felt such clean air in my lungs before."

"Good, do you still have the Bifrost?"

Atreus nods as he begins rummaging through a duffle sack on his belt. Despite the years that have passed, the Bifrost that Kratos once possessed is still intact. In fact, it appears to have been kept in excellent condition and handled with care. The gem within still shines, the metal design is unscratched and without rust. Along with it, Atreus incidentally shows the pair of golden eyes that Mimir once had.

"Are-are those?" Sindri is incapable of finishing his question out of disgust.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," Atreus says while quickly putting both the eyes and Bifrost away. "Mimir wanted me to have them, in case me and my father wanted to return to Jötunheim."

Thankfully, Atreus manages to hide the eyes fast enough to prevent Sindri from hurling. Even so, the dwarf decides to make space between himself and the Son of Kratos to relieve his nausea. Brok, in his brother's absence, walks up to Atreus.

"Alright, boy, there's one more thing you need know," Brok tells him. "While the mask will cleanse the toxins, it won't be permanent. You shouldn't get too sidetracked while in Niflheim, just find his Ivaldi's crap, and get out. The longer you stay, the higher the risk of choking to death and vomiting your intestines are..."

A brief moment of Disturbance freezes Atreus in place. Brok appears all to calm for what he claims may be a fatal risk for the Son of Kratos. A moment passes, with the two awkwardly staring at the other. To break this unsettling tension, Sindri returns.

"Okay, I'm back," he tells them, grasping his stomach in relief. "Is there anything you might need before-"

Worried over what the sibling might add, Atreus holds his hand out to interrupt his sentence. The dwarves watch in silence while Atreus collects his thoughts. The image of such a grotesque death now latches to his mind like barbed wires.

"How will I know when I've found the right equipment?" He softly asks to distract himself from the previous comment.

"They'll be divine looking, impossible to miss," Sindri answers.

"Very flashy, mostly likely having gold accessory, the guy had an ego," Brok adds.

"We won't be able to follow you far into the realm, but you will see us one more time before you get to Ivaldi's Workshop."

The dwarves return to their station and proceed to pack their equipment for the trip. Atreus gives them a nod before making his way to the room of Realm Travel. Given the time that has past, the light bridge has vanished. Even so, Atreus now has the means to remake it. Drawing his bow, he runs his fingers down the string to produce enchanting light. Pulling it back, he prepares a perfectly aligned shot.

"Ljösta," he calls out.

When releasing the strike, the arrow darts like a beam of light. Upon hitting the mark, a flash of light produces the bridge to enter the travel room. Atreus makes his way across the transparent walkway to the gate. Prying its golden gates, the Son of Kratos enters the chamber. The only source of the light flows from the hollow husk of the white oak tree.

When Atreus approaches, he stands over the metal bowl of black and blue water. Though it had been some time since he last used it, the power of the travel room still lives, ready for use. With his Bifrost, Atreus reactivates the chambers magics. The pool bubbled as the gates and towers of each realm emerge before his eyes. The tower of Jötunheim stands out to him the most.

An instant sense of sorrow fills his heart upon a past realization coming to mind. His importance as one of the last Jötnar and how he was meant to be their avenger. He looks to the several tattoos places upon his body, each one meant to symbolize the good nature he swore to follow. The tree of Yggdrasil upon his right pectoral, the several symbols and words inked onto the flesh of his right arm and torso. Each one guiding him, a sign of his desire for redemption.  
Brushing away his ill thoughts, he selects the world of Niflheim. The room spirals, flakes of leaves, and snow cyclone around him. Despite how many times he's observed this event, Atreus can't help but feel enchanted by the display. Until at last, the gate to the dwarven realm gives a welcoming glow. To find true peace, he must walk away from his past and follow the light. Unbeknownst to him, he marches headfirst into a destiny that will determine the ultimate fate of the nine realms.


	7. Q&A

Hello Everyone,

Thank you all so much for taking part in this grand adventure, and for your support. I greatly appreciate it, as well as the positive feedback and reviews. To answer all your questions (without filling up the comments), I've decided to answer them here. I'll be doing this here and again to keep things organized and easy for everyone to access. I also wish to give clarity to some topics of the story that some might be confused about. As well as questions about myself.

Question 1: Is Kratos permanently dead?

Yes. The idea of this story stems from the controversial prophecy hinted at us at the end of the game. Which depicts Kratos dying, and possibly leading to Atreus taking over as the main protagonist or becoming an antagonist. So, this is my take on what would happen if Atreus did take up his father's mantle.

Another reason I chose this path for the story is out of kindness for Kratos's character. He's suffered for hundreds of years, losing loved ones, family, and even his own home and world. If he was to deny this destiny, many were speculating that he would fight Atreus and potentially kill him. Which, to me, felt pointlessly cruel. It was time for him to find some semblance of peace. Whatever afterlife he's in, he can finally experience that.

Question 2: Why wasn't the Leviathan Axe able to match Mjölnir?

I did a lot of studying to compare the feats presented or mentioned by the godly armaments in the game (Watching videos, reading articles, listening to commentaries). While the Leviathan is an impressive weapon, Thor's hammer outclassed the axe in every way. Mjölnir was said to be able to kill giants in a single strike and break mountains. The only exception is the battle between Thor and the world serpent, which supposedly ended in a stalemate. Even so, the importance of the Leviathan remains. You have not heard the last of it.

Question 3: Why don't I post that often?

This one has been messaged to me a few times. I do apologize for not having the most frequent posting schedule. As well as not elaborating the answer clear enough before. The reasoning for this is due to the massive workload I force onto myself. I try my best to post artwork for my viewers on Deviantart, from traditional, digital, and works of literature. My Deviantart profile is under the same name, "JamesSilas." Some artwork related to this story can be found on my page there. I also work to pursue my goals in life, such as becoming an author. Sometime in 2020, I'm hoping to publish my first novel. Which I've been working on every day, and whenever I'm on writer's block, I work on this story. I'm trying to post a chapter or two of Atreus's Future once a month. That way, I'm providing a compelling, entertaining story until that day comes. I might not always be able to make the deadline each time, but the story will continue. I'm incredibly grateful for you all being so patient with me, thank you.

Question 4: Why did Freya forgive Atreus so easily?

This may be just my personal opinion, but to me, Freya didn't seem upset with Atreus at the end of the game. She directed her insults and threats towards Kratos, and given that Atreus was a child at the time, I couldn't see her blaming him for Baldur's death. Even though he removed the curse, it was accidental. Plus, he tried to persuade his father to spare the Aesir when the battle was over. Although Freya may never forgive Kratos, I don't think she'd ever take her anger out on Atreus in his father's place.

Question 5: What are my plans for the future?

This hasn't been a question asked, but one that should be answered none the less. As of right now, I intend to continue writing this adventure. I've had loads of fun delving into the lore of Norse Mythology, and that of the game franchise. It's also inspiring to read all of your comments and fills me with pride with each chapter being complete. Of course, to see an ultimate end of this series will take a great deal of time and effort. I hope that each one of you enjoys the journey through the nine realms.

Be sure to message me or comment if you have any more questions or feedback to give.

Thank you, and have a great New Year!


	8. Traversing the Deathly Maze

Even after the many years that have passed, the murky, gas poised realm of Niflheim is unaltered. The ruins of the old Dwarven kingdom remain rusted, decayed, and desolate. The plants have withered and died, and the dirt is poised and bleeds with sickening steam. The brown skies continue to blot out any form of light from the heavens. The very sight of the Realm in this decrepit state is enough to sicken any soul.

Atreus continues to inhale slowly, testing the mask with every step he takes. As he does, he scans the old dwarven fortress. Thoughts and ideas flow through his mind as to how this realm must have looked before Ivaldi's curse took root. The few moments of passing and nothing feels different. The toxic fumes have no effect on the Last Son of Sparta. It's startling for him that the Huldra Brothers invention worked so well. He rejoices with a deep soothing breath. He nods in acceptance of the device, and even smiles under it.

"It works," he says to himself. "That's a relief."

Continuing on into the old ruins, he remains alert. The memory of the horrors within the mist comes back to him. No doubt, do those abominations still linger in the foggy realm. Even so, his blades are in hand and ready to shred through any monster that stands against him. Before reaching the maze, just as expected, Brok and Sindri wait for him at the entrance. Their crafts and gear are already set up and ready for use.

"You guys should really teach me how to use those "shortcuts" of yours," Atreus comments while sheathing his blades.

"Dwarven secret, not something to be thrown around," Sindri replies.

"Grow a beard, and take some feet off your height, and maybe we'll be more inclined," Brok adds but continues to hammer away at his work.

"Figures..." Atreus looks out to the mists of the maze. To this day, the mechanisms and traps within are still active and can be heard operating. The rumbling and shredding noises against steel is perceivable even from there. A muffled sigh of annoyance leaves him as he remembers the dangers and puzzles within.

"Anything I should know before going through there?" Atreus asks.

"Well, one thing you should know is that shapeshifting is a bad idea," Sindri says. "The mask might not change, and the last thing you want to do is break it while you're in there."

"Damn... So much for just flying over it... So, how do I find the entrance to the underground chambers?"

"There will be a courtyard beyond the maze," Brok claims. With a few hops, he directs his finger beyond the mechanized maze. "Probably one of the few places with anything green for miles. The entrance should be around there."

"I remember, I just have to fight my way through a ravenous horde of beasts and Draugr to get there... Not the mention the traps that can dismember and flatten me..."

"Yep..." The dwarves respond.

The Huldra Brothers immediately begin tinkering with their own tools and crafts. Sparks fly and banging of metal rings while Atreus stares off into the foggy distance of the ruins. The Son of Kratos lets out a tiresome groan, knowing of the difficulties of navigating the maze, and that the battles will continue until he reaches the other side.

"Okay..." He comments as he marches forward.

"Wait!" Sindri raises his voice. "You'll need these!"

Reaching off to the side, the dwarf clenches a cluster of black wood arrows with crimson, feather tails. With both arms, he chucks the ammunition to Atreus. Who in turn, blindly catches them while heading into the maze. Sliding them into his quiver, he ventures, vanishing into the bleak, deathly clouds of the ruins.

"Good luck!" Sindri shouts.

"Thanks, I'm going to need it," he replies, his voice fading as well.

All is quiet within the first area of the maze. Corpses of adventurers seeking loot and treasure rest partially within the dirty beneath Atreus's heels. Many devoid of flesh, while others rotting, grotesque and torn to shreds by the horrors within. Thankfully, the stench of this area is unregistered to Atreus due to the mask. While all looks calm around him, the gears running the deadly maze keep him on alert. As he marches onward, he comes across the first trap.

A moving wall slams into the other side of the walkway, before pulling back to repeat the act. Atreus stands at the edge, calculating the time between each collision. Although the fog is to thick to see the other side, he's confident he'll reach it before it activates. He rests his shoulder on the opposite side of the moving wall, preparing to dash the moment the way is clear.

Just as the path is open enough for his body to fit, he races blindly into the choking fog. This time the trail feels longer than when he was younger. No matter how far he charges, the other side doesn't seem to get any closer. Another trick made by Ivaldi's maze. The silencing gears signals him that he's about to be smashed against the bronze barricade.

Still, he presses on, unable to turn back now. The releasing mechanism screeches in his ears as the wall launches at him. Though the other side is still clouded to him, the solid gold block charging at him becomes clear within seconds. Each beat of his heart marks one less moment before potential death. Every step taken is a step to safety or doom. A small opening to the side is his only option, but there's no certainty he can make it. Just as he's about to cut the corner to get inside, the machine reaches him.

Swerving his body in the direction of the battering surface, he meets the hit head-on. Crossing his arms, Atreus activates the mechanism of Trolls Bane. Two small, triangle-shaped shields form on his forearms. Taking the impact at a sideways angle, the barricade clashes with his arm guards, and send him flying through the opening. Instead of it being a small corridor like he remembers, it actually is a large open area just as barren as before.

After tumbling across the decrepit floor of dirt and ash, Atreus studies the new sector. He stands at the heart of the octagon-shaped area. Without a doubt, the maze has somehow evolved. Perhaps too many have come to claim the wealth and treasures within. Along with the shifting mechanics of Ivaldi's workshop, the creatures within have also become much more ravenous and dangerous.

Bursting forth from the tainted gravel, hags, and masked Revenants' emerge. Floating on their vile clouds, and cackling with broken voices all around Atreus. Along with them are flaming Draugr, that angrily growl at the Son of Kratos. Though the numbers stack above him, and his foes are absent of mercy and sanity, Atreus has no worry. Time and time has he faced such horrors alone and with his father, and countlessly has he always triumphed. He draws his bow and arrows, prepared to give his enemies their last fight.

Immediately, the horde of undead charge at him while the witches behind conjure their spells. Atreus, in retaliation, begins launching his arrows.

"Ljösta!" He shouts.

Vibrant light consumes his shots while beaming off the illuminated string. Each arrow pierces through its marks. Limbs and flesh are shred and torn with every strike. One by one, the undead fall before even reaching Atreus. That is until one dug its way from the earth, right at his feet. In an instant, the zombified warrior latches its horrid claws around his ankles. Only for it to meet the end of the demigod's runic seax blade. Atreus drives the sharpest end of the short sword into its jaw, and through its skull.

Even after the majority of Draugr fall in battle, the Revenants remain. With the given time, the three deathly witches unleash their magic. From their clawed, boney fingers, they hurl waves of poison directly at him. However, with the mask on, he's only pushed back a distance by their spells. In retaliation, he sends his thunderous arrows at them.

"Þruma!" He shouts.

His bolts of lightning dart across through the air. The several arrows shot, ricochet off the metallic walls and light the field. Even when making contact with the levitating hags, they tear through them and continue through the yard. Only one manages to escape the reflective barrage. Which swiftly moves in to attack Atreus. Dispersing into a cloud of insects and gas, the last Revenant closes in on him. Now in close quarters, the two engage each other in close combat.

Even with his fast swinging Blades of Chaos, the chainlink swords cannot land a single strike against the witch. Although her attacks aren't severe, they do prove quite troublesome and irritable. Her relentless actions inhibit him from using his bow against her. It doesn't help that her broken cackling only provokes Atreus more, while she dances around his attacks. Eventually, the soulless Revenant's arrogance overcomes her. Now it circles around him in its incorporeal form.

For a moment, Atreus hones his focus on where she might appear. Her maniacal laughter becomes blotted by his intense concentration. The witch's movements are repetitive, and she always strikes at his side and back. Finally, with one swing, Atreus sends out the blades. As predicted, she reverts back to her corporeal form right where the chainlinks are heading. The revenant lets out a harrowing cry as the Blades of Chaos pierce into her flesh. Swiftly, the Son of Kratos pulls her in before she can escape. Her screams are silenced the moment his hands latch onto her throat and snaps it.

The first ring of enemies has been cleared. Atreus discards the corpse, throwing it to the side. After ripping the blades from her carcass, he places them back onto his back. Before he takes his leave from this arena, he reclaims whatever arrows he can. Pulling them from the dirt and out of the bodies. Now, there are two routes to take. Another path with a ramming wall, which is also clouded in mist. The other, a trail with arrows and harpoons being shot from the fortifications.

Atreus irritably wobbles his head, indecisive over which direction to head through. To gamble with the mist nearly killed him, while the other has relentless attacks bombarding him. However, he can at least see a new sector of the maze on the other side. Both are a test of speed and focus, now comes the matter of which one looks plausible to pass. Back and forth, he glances at each path. A decision had to be made, which danger would he choose?

While pondering, he raises his hand to rub his eyes. However, looking at Trolls Bane gives him a solution. With a jerk of his wrists, he activates the shields within the gauntlets. His whole forearms and half of his biceps are guarded by them. The size of each one alone is not much, but together they form a decent size barricade. Without a second thought, he rushes through the onslaught of arrows and bolts.

Although he doesn't match his father in endurance and strength, he does surpass him in speed and cunning. He swerves his body in fluid motions and utilizes his shields to block or redirect the barrage of razor shots. Through intense focus and precise aiming of his movements, he avoids and blocks nearly every shot. Some graze his body, cutting his fur vest and pants, but unable to harm any vital areas on him. Some harpoons, he catches and throws to the ground before continuing.

At last, he reaches safety within the new chamber. A light chuckle of proudness toward the effectiveness of Trolls Bane muffles from him. Another flick of his wrists and the shields reverts back into the gauntlets. While one obstacle is out of the way, the danger has yet to yield. More of the undead rise, this time, searing with mindless anger. One shoots out of the floor at Atreus, who reacts by drawing the Blades of Chaos. Although he lands a direct hit by slashing each blade on each side of its neck. The wild flames from his father's weapons have zero effect on it.

The Draugr latches its decaying grasp on each sword while pulling itself closer to him.

"Damn," he spouts, remember that the blades won't work on these types of enemies.

Shoving the living corpse away, he brings out his seax and drives it through its skull. With one swing, he shreds the blade from its head. Immediately after, the remaining undead begins to charge him. Atreus launches the shortsword at the furthest Draugr and rushes at the others. The runic blade embeds itself in the throat of the ravines undead. The creature falls, just as the remaining horde reaches the Son of Kratos. Plowing his way through them, he knocks them all aside to prioritize the one in the back.

Atreus proceeds to bash his way through the swarm of the undead with his brass-knuckled gauntlets. Using both speed and swift motion, he throws his punches and calls upon his seax blade to slash and pierce his foes. As well as hurl across the air, and repeat. As the fight persists, the Son of Kratos begins to grow more savage and ruthless with his attacks. Back handing his foes, grasping the runic blade with both hands for more forceful strikes, and snapping the necks of his enemies.

At last, he summons his weapon from the body of another, but the short sword incidentally pulls the corpse with it. As he grasps the handle, unaware of the body attached, he rips it from its chest. The seax is cleanly cleaved from the body, and through the throat of the last Draugr. However, Atreus is unfinished with his onslaught and flips the blade in his hand. To finish his foes, he drives it through the back of its skull. Yanking it from the undead, its sizzling blood splatters on him.

Atreus stands, his body steaming as the liquids from the Draugr coat his body. He's unfazed by the heat and takes a moment to calm himself. He growls aggressively when gazing down at his foes. As his moral senses return to him, he questioningly examines himself. Where is this savagery coming from? His body trembles, wanting to let loose more of this sudden wrath. It only takes but a moment for him to correct his senses, but his fight is not yet over.

From above, with rampaging fury, and ogre crashes down into the corridor. The sickly, gorilla-like behemoth roars, blinded with rage and hysteria from overexposure to the toxins in the air. Its eyes devoid of color, its flesh rotting and barely clinging to its body, even its gums and fangs are decomposing. The only desire left in the ogre is to destroy everything in its path. Now, its new target is the Son of Kratos. Not only is Atreus unthreatened by the beast, but a sudden idea comes to mind.

"There's my way through this maze," he comments. "COME ON THEN!"

Atreus's taunts quickly agitate the beast. Another deep yell erupts from the monster's throat before charging at him. The Son of Kratos does the same but hurls his seax blade at the beast while rushing forward. With ease, the short sword directly hits the ogre's right eye. As it does, the creature flinches from the hit, allowing Atreus to take the upper hand in the fight. He leaps into the air, grabbing onto the handle of the blade, and twirling his body onto its back. Tearing the seax off, he plunges it into the ogre's other eye. More roars and cries of spiteful rage rhythm in the room.

Just as the beast reaches to grab hold of him, Atreus leaps from its shoulder. Right as he lands in front of it, the creature's wild flailing is about to make contact. As its backhand swings at him, the Son of Kratos blocks it with Trolls Bane. Although he is pushed back, he's able to harness the strength of the blow. The automated shield that forms absorbs the hit, now allowing him to redirect the force of the attack right back. His fists, amplified by the power taken from the ogre, knocks the beast flat on its back.

"Oh, Hel yeah," Atreus says to himself, with great delight for the steaming gauntlets.

The shields retract, and as they do, the ogre begins to lift itself back onto its feet. With a window of opportunity still presenting itself, Atreus draws his twin blades. He swings them out to the beast. As the chains wrap around its head, inside its jaws, and over its blood pouring eye sockets, they finally snag into the flesh of its shoulders. Though it yanks and pulls to remove the metallic leash, its efforts only tighten the hold. Before the ogre can retaliate any further, Atreus runs along the wall to pull himself back onto its back.

Shackled, impaired, and blinded with rage, Atreus now uses the behemoth as his personal mount. When yanking in the right direction, the beast runs rampant wherever he chooses. For starters, he has the ogre rush through the next contraption ahead. A series of ring-shaped saws shred the halls ahead. Utilizing its berzerk strength, the Last Son of Sparta makes the creature bash its way through. Every swing breaks and shatters the spinning blades. The mechanism slowly falters the more damage is done. The saws ahead begin to spark and glitch, right before being pummeled and yanked from the walls. Whatever damage would have been inflicted on Atreus, is now being unwantedly shielded by the ogre.

Every enemy that comes their way is bashed, torn in two, or flattened by the brute strength of the beast. Even the spell casting Revenants can barely phase the creature, which only leads to their downfall. Even when the ogre attempts to free itself, it only takes a moment to make the beast submissive once more. Using brute force like his father to keep the mindless creature under his control.

Sadly, the free ride comes to an abrupt end. Right as Atreus reaches the final pathway to the garden, the ogre reclaims its freedom. With one swoop of its burly, rugged hand, it snatches Atreus from its back and hurls him forward. The blades and chains detach as he's sent flying through the pass. His body collides with the stone and metal entryway and plummets, with some rubble falling with him.

Quickly he stands, to finish the beast off. Both blades burning blue in his grasp, and staring at the incoming foe. The ogre roars as it swings at random while rushing toward him. However, halfway through, the creature's lost sight proves to be its greatest downfall. Stomping on top of a small pedestal, the ogre triggers one of the hidden traps. From beneath it, several well-crafted spears, tridents, and spikes shoot out. Most, if not all, of the bladed edges, drive their way through the blind beast. A soft, wet growl leaves its decaying jaws, along with its dying breath.

With victory assured, and no longer needing to face any other threats, Atreus sighs in relief. As he sheaths his blades, he makes his way to the garden.

After making his way up the stairs, he is greeted by a sliver of sunlight. The temporary blinding light is immediately blotted out by the giant statue on the peak. Atreus looks out to the garden that he and his father once walked.

Just like how he remembered, the green meadow is unchanged. The grass is flourishing and healthy. The statues and carved stone still pristine, even the chests that he and his father looted are still barren. After more than a decade, the garden has not been disturbed in any way. For the moment, Atreus dwells in the serenity of the area. He sits at its center, basking in the beauty that has endured the impossible odds. He takes in the only clean air for miles, for once in a long while, he feels peace.

"I wish you were here, father," Atreus says, looking to the sky. "The years have felt like an eternity without you here... I've never been so lost..."

Moments pass as Atreus continues to stare into the clouded, emerald sky. The time of solitude alleviates the physical hardship of these battle filled days. Yet, dwelling thoughts of the past begin to weigh on Atreus's psyche.

"I know I've made mistakes, but I'm trying my damndest to follow your lessons," he says. "Yet, the more I tell myself that I'm doing the right thing..." Every second he ponders his moral dilemma, the more his anger builds. His fingers dig into the ground, as his expression tightens and scowls. "The more I feel the burning hatred inside... How did you do it? How did you overcome your rage?"

Sorrow follows his questions in desperation for direct answers. Sadly, the only response is the silence of the deathly realm. It fills his heart and coincides with his dread. He lowers his head, allowing the quiet atmosphere to help fight off the inner distraught.

"I suppose I'll have to learn for myself," Atreus says while bringing himself back to his feet. "Wherever you are, father, I hope mother is there, and that both of you are at peace..."

Even with the thought of his mother and father haunting him, he proceeds to search the garden. The few runes that are readable don't provide many clues as to the location of the chamber. Instead, what he learns is a riddle.

 _He who watches over the cradle guards the way. His look is the lock, and his negligence is the key. From oversight, will the path open to the heart of Niflheim._


	9. Delving into the Toxic Depths

Atreus paces around the meadow, circling it unconsciously. Over and over, he mutters the phrase. Yet, no matter how he tones the words, the answer isn't any clearer. As an extra measure, he continues searching through every corner and crevis of the garden. Although he finds some more runes and a handful of silver and leftover treasure, nothing helps solve the mystery.

"Perhaps there's a monster within the maze that holds the key?" Atreus asks himself. "No, that's unlikely... Father and I had been through this maze several times, I think we would have found it back then..."

Now he stands at the center of the lush green field. A cool breeze brushes him and through the grass at his feet.

"He who watches over the cradle guards the way," Atreus begins to repeat. As the words slip passed his lips, his eyes scan the skies. "His look is the lock, and his negligence is the key... From oversight, will the path open to the heart of Niflheim..."

The answer, so visible, yet hidden in broad view presents itself to him. While skimming the area, the one detail that looms over him is the statue. The rusty husk of a warrior figure faces the garden and looks down upon the Son of Kratos. Wholeheartedly believing that the answer rests there, Atreus marches toward the massive construction. Climbing proves effortless through his determination.

Now standing side to side with the statue, he examines the peak. No lever or device is visible at the top. Even the age and rust of the artwork show how little interaction there was in this spot. He looks out to the garden in search of any other clues. Yet, nothing to the horizon or off to the sides has any value to the search for the entrance. Once more, Atreus mutters the riddle, softer than even a whisper. Although it may sound unlikely, one possibility sparks in his mind.

Grabbing the leg of the hollow formation, the Last Son of Sparta pulls on it with all of his strength. Although the screeching of rusty, dwarven steel could be confused for reckless damage, eventually, the statue begins to turn. The creaking of ancient metals and gears creeps from the earth below. The longer he turns the structure, the more the garden reacts.

With garden life springing atop it, the floor beneath the lush green meadow begins to rip open. Separate devices pull the earth apart, releasing a burst of thick, brown clouds of lethal fumes from below. Every second of prying the warrior to turn, the harder the rumbling becomes. The scraping of ancient metal lightens as the passage fully opens. With the statue facing away, the pulled apart field now presents Atreus with the entrance.

Below the desolate garden, a black and golden platform rests, with a broad stairway attached. The fog that endlessly pours is thick enough to shield the lowest level of the pathway. Even to this day, devices withing rumble and roar actively within the chamber. As Atreus approaches, he shields his mouth. Though the mask was a great help, even the dwarven mouthguard cannot fully protect him here.

"Brok and Sindri weren't kidding about the fumes being worse beneath the earth," Atreus recalls. "I need to work fast."

Gods only know what horrors may linger in the depths of Niflheim. Whatever powers Ivaldi meddled with, he would be facing them, now that the way is open. Atreus takes up his longbow and begins his descent into the toxic heart of the realm. Three arrows already rest in his fingers, ready to be fired at any given moment. Through the smoke of death, he would be prepared to inflict the same fate upon his foes.

* * *

The stairway comes to an abrupt end not long after Atreus enters. Before him is a massive cave entrance large enough to fit a troll. Much to his worry. Even so, he brazenly moves onward, no matter the danger that may await him. Within the caverns, tubes, pipes, and gears are scattered and pierced in the walls and floors of the passage. Steam and gas bleed from every crack and opening. The heat sticks itself to Atreus's flesh and even his fur clothing. He moves at a fast yet careful pace. The threat of both the toxins and possible beasts and monstrosities within, make his approach challenging to manage... Or so he thought...

The deeper he delves into the mines, the more corpses he finds. Not just of rotting dwarves, but of Draugr, Revenants, and even Asgardian's long passed. One peculiar detail unsettles the Son of Kratos. Many of the bodies have been chewed up, torn to bits, and partially dragged into the earth. The long passage of time has molded the carcasses into the gravel itself. Looks of fear and agony petrified on their faces.

"What the-"

Before Atreus can even finish his question, he gets his answer. Bursting from the walls, ceiling, and dirt are scaley tendrils and tails that wrap around each of his limbs. The fanged, pincer heads of massive, insect-like serpents latch onto his shoulders and other parts of his body. His angry groans can be confused for growls as he's drawn to the nearest surface. Though the creatures had the preemptive strike, his strength proves to be a more significant challenge for them. Even as they gnaw on his limbs, his will to break free prevents them from claiming another victim.

Unable to grab any of his weapons, his only reliable source of defense is the arrows already in hand. With one forced, stabbing motion, he drives the arrowheads into one of the serpents. An agonizing hissing and wailing fill the room, the worm releases its hold on Atreus's arm. With one more limb free, he reaches for his seax. With a blind swing of his shortsword, he severs another of the creatures in two. More anguished cries echo in the caverns. Now halfway free, Atreus begins slicing and cleaving his way through the pack of ground-dwelling hunters.

Even after unlatching himself from the jaws of the insects, he's unable to catch a moment's rest. The cries of the creatures have alerted more. The Blades of Chaos burn in his hands, now ready to face them. As he rushes through the mines, the snake-like hunters lunge at him from all directions. One by one, with each swing of his chain blades, the beasts wriggle and writhe in death. Yet no matter how many he cuts down, the swarm persists.

From both directions, does the earth move and turn with the serpents approaching him. Above, and below, they creep to him, awaiting the moment to strike all at once. The sounds of antagonizing hisses surround him, reaching into the back of his mind. Even with numbers not being in his favor, Atreus shows no fear to them, but instead annoyance. Though their bites sting, they're not lethal. However, his time is far more crucial and cannot be wasted with these subterranean creatures.

Just as he stances himself to meet their attack, a sudden quake within the caverns occurs. So much power from the tremor nearly knocks Atreus over, and even shakes the serpents out of hiding. No longer are they organized and pestering. The creatures shriek in panic, terror at the source of the rumble. They scurry in all directions, even slithering and avoiding Atreus as they desperately make their way back into the earth. What comes with it, even frightens the fearless Son of Kratos.

A voice, deeper than a mountain, and with the burning fury of a comet, blasts in Atreus's ears. Rocking him to his very core, striking such terror that his knees become weak. His heart races, not entirely recognizing the language spoken but knowing what it means... Chaos... Ushering of Oblivion... Ragnarok... Whatever heralds in such a cataclysm, is not a force Atreus wishes to face. Nor could such a thing be in Niflheim, not without leaving its unavoidable mark. Just as fast as it came, the unknown presence vanishes.

"What was that?" He asks.

Though shaken from the experience, his goal remains the same. Now only wishing to complete his task quicker, he no longer plays safely. He rushes through the cave system. The serpents now hide, no longer blocking his path. Which makes it all the easier to reach the end, something that Atreus now dreads. Every thought in his mind is wishful and hopeful that he doesn't encounter whatever shook the realm, just by talking.

* * *

The further he traverses the cave, the more time he has to quell the anxiousness in him. Although his focus is directed back to his objective, an unsettling curiosity is still hooked in him. Even when every part of him tells him not to think into it, his thoughts keep tethering him back to that voice. Could it have been a Jötunn, hiding from the Aesir? No, not possible. It would be impossible to miss a giant with such power. Just as his mind is about to linger longer into the idea, his search ends.

"Finally," he says in relief.

At the end of the cave, is a dome-shaped chamber of gold and bronze. Large enough to fit a dragon or two. The walls are held up and fortified by thicker pipes and channels of metal. Gears continue to turn and keep Ivaldi's machines active. Stalactites hang from the ceiling, sharpened and decorated to fit the theme of the room. Several workstations are scattered across the chamber, cluttered with notes and ruined, aged tomes of research. However, the most distinct detail rests at the very back of the room.

Atop a glistening throne rests the skeleton, of the master dwarf himself. Ivaldi chose his resting place at the heart of the dwarven realm. Even after so many ages passed, his glimmering, royal armor hasn't broken down to the passage of time. Along with his overfilled chest, that he clung to until his final moments. The most glamorous set of hammers, gauntlets, and other blacksmithing tools rest inside the black chest.

"That's convenient," Atreus comments, still looking down at the room from the top of a ledge. "For Ivaldi, and his divine equipment to just be sitting there... In the open..."

Atreus takes a moment to study the room further. He glances at every corner of the chamber. To the naked eye, nothing seems amiss, and in fact, feels all but barren. A well-carved stairway is beside him, leading him right to Ivaldi's body. Even with those creatures lurking in the earth around him, this room hasn't been disturbed by them. Nothing stands between him and his objective. Yet, his instincts tell him otherwise.

"I'm going to regret this..." He says distastefully.

A muffled sigh vacates his mask while he leaps down from the ledge. Casual, yet observant towards the area, he marches to the throne. Again, he does not notice anything suspicious, but can't let go of the feeling that something is observing him. From that room, or beyond, he doesn't know with certainty. Yet his mind won't let the thought go into the clouds of the chamber.

"I don't think you'll be needing these any longer," Atreus says while reaching for the box.

Just as his hand touches the ancient chest, the realm trembles once more. More violent than before, accompanying the rumble is the same booming, cindering call. This time, the earthquake disables the machinery in the chamber. The tubes burst, expelling more fumes, gears shatter and fall, along with some rubble from above. The walls and floors crack at random, the chaotic tremors reaching into Atreus's very soul. However, what follows is the most alarming phenomenon.

At the heart of Ivaldi's lab, a rift, black as an abyss tears open. Spewing from it are wild flames that reach outward. Portions of the room are scorched, and the gases burn and incinerate by the intense heat. In a flash, the chamber's cleansed, and the fires doused by the void from where it came. The quake ceases, and any trace of the wrathful voice is gone.

"What is that?" Atreus asks.

The Son of Kratos carefully approaches. The vacuum produced by the tear is soft enough to be confused for a breeze. Despite the frightening display of its opening, the appearance is serene, a tether that draws him towards it. The closer he gets, the more an image within becomes apparent. As well as the sounds from the other side.

"BURN THIS CITY, BURN IT TO THE GROUND!" Atreus hears from the rift.

The vision from within strikes him with disarray, dread, and denial. The longer he stares, the more he rejects what he sees. A world, consumed with fire, rage, and genocide. A city of gold in desolation, with a mighty crowned tower in the background. The heavens above black and red from smoke and storms. Corpses of all the creatures and people of the nine realms littering a still ongoing battle. The clashing of steel, the screams, and cries of war echo in the distance. At its center, is Atreus himself, dawning the crimson Blades of Chaos, and his marking blood red.

"This can't be!" Atreus spouts, disdained by what he sees. "That's not me, it can't be me..."

Questions form in his head faster than he can comprehend them. The longer he dwells on the vision, the more scorn and grief consume his heart. Was that his future? He could never cause such anguish, unnecessary cruelty, and torment. Yet it felt and looked to real to be an illusion. With every fiber of his being, Atreus dismisses such a possibility. He shakes his head furiously, trying to remove the images from his consciousness.

"I refuse to believe it!" He shouts. "That will not be my destiny!"

Breaking him from his train of thought is a familiar hissing sound. Looking up at the balcony, he hears the approaching carnivorous insects. The absence of the earthquake has drawn them back out of hiding. Atreus takes up his bow once more. His eyes are fixated on their approaching shadows. As they begin slithering into the chamber, their subtle taunts become shrieks. Incidentally, their call leads to their demise.

A much louder roar from the rift extends to the room and tunnels. The subterranean creatures shiver and flinch at the backlash. Another shine of light blinds Atreus, forcing him to back away. While shielding his eyes, the Sons of Kratos feels the shakes and growls of a massive creature now standing in the chamber. Large and threatening enough to invoke terror in the other predators.

After uncovering his eyes, the rift has all but vanished. In its place, a massive creature towers above him and the insects. Its body plated in ebony and crimson steel, melding into its matching scales. Only long, slender arms with blade sharp talons, support its snake-like body. A single webbed fin, tattered, grows from underneath its gaping, rigid fanged jaws. With another mighty roar, this Lindworm announces its presence to the lesser creatures.

In an instant, wild flames spew from its mouth and into the toxic fumed tunnels. In a flash, the insectoids are incinerated, not even letting a hiss free before dying. All around him, Atreus sees how the fires spread even into the earth. A chain effect causes the gas pipes around him to combust, shards of dwarven metal fling and blast in all directions, and the steam from the cracks intense. With his back to the coldest surface, Atreus shields himself from the fierce heat.

From its mere breath, the Lindworm has left Ivaldi's creations in ruins. Now it sets its sights on one last obstacle, Atreus himself. The Son of Kratos already dawns his longbow and is about to launch his arrows. Just as the draconic beast turns to him, he fires.

"Þruma, Bruni, Ljösta!" He shouts.

Fire shoots, light flies, and lightning crackles from his bowstring. Directly, the shots make contact with the Lindworms head. An explosion of bright fury and electricity erupts in all directions from its skull. Although it pulls back from the attack, the drake shows little injury from the attack. Instead, the beast becomes enraged to the point that its eyes and belly glow with furious heat.

In a dash, the Lindworm rams its talons at the Son of Kratos. Although he's able to block the palm strike with the shields of Trolls Bane, he cannot stop the claws from slicing the sides of his body. Nor brace himself from the impact against the wall behind him. Blood from his arms and shoulders now coat the beast's hand. As it's grip tightens, the razor blade nails cut and dig into Atreus's back. Angrily with a shout, he redirects the force of the hit with an outward swing of his arms.

The bludgeoning strike is enough to break the Lindworms hold. Yet, it only provokes the creature even further. The beast growls, and its serpent tongue slithers from its fangs. Immediately, it swings the back of its other hand towards him. However, he's still distracted from the open wounds, leaving him unable to stop this hit. Taking the full might of the attack, the Lindworm sends him flying across the chamber. The wall cracks from the hurling impact. Even as he falls from the attack, Atreus manages to land on his feet.

Once more, he unleashes a barrage of elemental arrows at the beast. While the attacks are direct and create mighty blasts, they prove near useless against the serpent. Its immolating body and metal shell prove nigh immune to the relentless shots. The Lindworm's agitation increases as more arrows strike its body, prompting it to attack with more savagery. With every swing of its claws, Atreus blocks or leaps away from the attack. When countering the swipes with the Blades of Chaos, even the searing flames of his father's weapons prove ineffective.

The only weapons on his arsenal that make some impact are his seax blade, and Troll's Bane. Even so, his blunt punches, and precise slashes and throws, barely scrape or leave damage on its armor.

"Dammit, think!" He shouts to himself. "How the Hel do I get past that armor?"

For a moment, Atreus and the beast lock eyes. Its fury flashes in its irises, fluctuating them between the colors of orange and red. Indirectly, by staring at his enemy, the Son of Kratos rediscovers the massive stalactites hanging on the ceiling. Just as the beast builds up its flames within its snake-like jaws, Atreus fires into the sky.

"Bruni!"

His well-placed shots hit the weakest points of the foundation. The roof quakes, and one of the giant shards of rock comes crashing down. Before the Lindworm can avert the plummeting stone, the stone collapses onto its neck. Some of the armor platings shatter, and even the cindering scales crumble by the weight. With the front half of its body now pinned, Atreus moves in for a relentless assault. Furiously, he bashes the beasts face with Troll's Bane. While initially having the upper advantage, it's not long before the creature frees itself.

Atreus leaps away as the Lindworm hurls the chunk of rock toward him. Although he's unable to catch it, he manages to withstand the hit with his shields. His body is pushed all the way towards the nearest wall. Appearing just as helpless as the serpent was, the beast rushes him. Right as its head comes close, Atreus leaps above it. With swift agility and well-placed balance, he reaches the exposed part of its defenses. Utilizing both the chains from his blades and that of his seax, he slashes, pierces, and tears at it.

The Lindworm's hot blood spills down its flexible spine. The creature violently rocks and shakes its body in retaliation, but Atreus's chains have a tight hold on its body. Only when deciding to hurl itself at the nearest foundation, is it able to brush Atreus off it. The Son of Kratos is bashed on both sides, releasing his hold on the creature. With snake levels of speed, the Lindworm grabs his legs with its jaws, throwing him into the air.

As his body flies toward another sharp shard of earth, he quickly swerves himself. Sadly, the side of his stomach is still cut by it. Even when in pain, he hones his sense of aim to drive his runic sword into one of the rocks. Now he hangs, looming above his enraged foe.

"This thing just won't die!" Atreus states. "Where in the nine realms could such a beast crawl out of?"

The longer he remains beyond its reach, the more the Lindworm's rage persists. Watching it bash and beat on the surrounding foundation, gives Atreus one more idea.

"I need to bring the whole chamber down on top of it," he says, looking around at the already damaged ceiling. After breaking a portion of it, more of Ivaldi's remaining and undamaged pipelines and machines become visible. "I just need to make it a little angrier."

Instead of using any more arrows, or trying to harm it from his great distance, he comes up with an alternative. As the draconic beast hisses and growls at him, Atreus throws a small pebble at it. For a moment, the Lindworm's aggression fades and becomes silent.

"Come on, I'm right here," Atreus says. Awaiting for it to attack, Atreus drives one of his blades into one of the thicker pipes. Concentrated gas begins to pour, forming a dense cloud around him.

Suddenly, returning to its rage-filled state, the Lindworm lets out another roar. Once more, its lungs fill with fire, bright enough to peak from its throat. The beast spews the explosive wave of flames towards Atreus. Right before they reach him, he pushes himself downward. He darts downward, passing them as an explosion erupts behind him from the serpent's attack and flammable fumes. Once more, the foundation and any remaining mechanisms erupt and blast to pieces. To slow his fall, and shield himself, Atreus grabs hold of the Lindworms webbed fin beneath its chin. Its head is pulled down, as the ceiling crashes down on both of them. Rock, metal, and fire bury them, leaving the chamber in ruins. Only Ivaldi's throne and his treasure remain, undamaged and out of the ruble.

* * *

All becomes calm, deathly still in the devastation. The only noise is that of the charred debris and still lit patches of fire. After some time, the masses of stone and metal begins to rumble. As it parts, the Lindworm restlessly shakes its way out. Much of its armor is damaged, along with portions of its scale. Some of which are peeling off its flesh. Trickles of glowing red blood drip from all of the severe wounds. Beneath its jaws, Atreus still clings to its fin. With one jerking motion, he tears it clean from the draconic creature's jaw. It roars while backing away.

"Damn, I was sure that was going to be the end of it," Atreus says.

Even the Son of Kratos is injured from this unprepared battle. Every limb bearing cuts, bruises, and small gashes. Even trickles of blood drip from his hair and onto his face. As he stares at his equally harmed foe, he no longer senses anger. Instead, a look in the Lindworms eyes and tone of growl make him feel mocked.

"I ain't dead yet," he says, wiping his forehead. "I've foughten gods, you're nothing special!"

With one lunge, the Linderworm charges him. Given the condition of the beast, it cannot move too quickly, allowing Atreus to leap away in time. A choice that soon becomes an instant, regretful decision. Instead of clamping its jaws onto Atreus, the beast takes the corpse of Ivaldi, along with his chest. After swallowing the treasure, the Lindworm faces him, letting loose another taunting hiss.

"Goddamnit!" Atreus spouts.

Both he and the serpent stare at each other, on the same level. Eye to eye, both are ready to kill. Atreus, with his single seax, and the Lindworm exposing its sword length fangs. In synch, the two rush each other. They match in pitch as the creature roars, and Atreus yells. With the mouth of the beast gaping open, the Son of Kratos skids across the floor. Bringing his blade up, he slices the serpent's chin. Yet, the moment he stands, only a second is spared to him. Right as he turns, the creature's jaws crash down on him. With one gulp, Atreus is swallowed whole.

A moment passes, as the Lindworm does not react. Everything settles, and the battle comes to an abrupt end. However, it's not the serpent that will claim victory. Instantly, it begins to writhe and wail in pain. The beast's body jerks and flails randomly. As each second passes, blood and excessive fluids spew from its roaring jaws. Its cries become faint and quieter as its throat becomes clogged. Its anguished calls cease, the moment Atreus's seax rips through its belly. With one swing upwards, the Son of Kratos tears a line through its stomach. With another, slashes across its throat.

Atreus bursts from its body, blood, and saliva spill and sprays out with him. The Lindworm falls back, collapsing dead on the piles of stone around them. Even in death, its corpse wiggles and slithers uncontrollably like a snake. Atreus, while in a revolted state, stands victorious. In one hand, his stained runic blade, the other, Ivaldi's chest and clasping, decayed hand clinging to it. The Son of Kratos examines his bathed body, and shake in repulsion.

"Disgusting!" He says, sheathing his sword and laying the chest down. While stretching and jerking his limbs, the cracking and relocating of his bones eases his soreness. "I never want to do that again."

Ivaldi's work has been destroyed, all that remains of him is his tools and reckless legacy. His machines and creations have combusted and are no longer operational. It's uncertain that the Lindworm's flames affected the outside, but Atreus will soon find out. However, just as he is about to depart, something curious catches his eye. Even after dropping masses of stone atop his foe, the beasts helm and some of its armor are intact. He approaches closer to it. Its reflexes continue to make it move, but slowly becoming still. Out of intrigue, he bangs on the top of the metal headpiece, testing its durability.

"Interesting," he comments, coming to a sudden decision.


	10. Embarking Towards the Light

During Atreus's time underground, the Huldra Brothers wait patiently for his return. Passing by the time, they hammer away at random assortments of weapons and armor. They remain at the front entrance, not daring to risk themselves with the mist, or what lingers within it. Even with the pounding of steel in their ears, the ambiance is too quiet and serene to feel natural.

"He's been gone for some time," Sindri comments. "Do you think he's alright?"

"The turd and his old man have fought uglier than what's in this here maze," Brok replies, entranced by his work. "Give the pup some time, how much trouble could he possibly cause?"

As if the threads of fate decided to bend to his words, the world quakes around them. A rumble, with enough force to shake the brothers' off their feet, has been invoked. After collapsing, not long after does their temporary work area crumble around them. Even the noises of fleeing beasts and abominations can be heard in the distance. A great disturbance has struck terror in even the mindless dead.

Accompanying the cataclysm is spewing fire and ember glistening smoke. The marvels of the maze combust and shatter before the eyes of the Huldra Brothers. Scraps of dwarven metal, bolts, screws, and animatronic shards fly in all directions. Yet, the tremors cease as quickly and abruptly as they came. The structures of the temple remain intact, and all falls silent in the wake of the quake.

"What was that?" Sindri questions, sickened by laying on the flat, unclean floor.

"Heimdall blowing his horn with his ass, how should I know!" Brok snarls with his comment.

While shaken up by the erupting tremor, Brok and Sindri come to their dwarven senses. The brothers' lookout to the realm, now consumed by chaos. Their jaws hang in awe and dread at what has occurred. Even more so perplexed by the unfathomed reasoning behind it. Brazenly, they approach the edge of the entrance of the maze. Despite how close they stand, the mechanisms of the land have fallen silent. Ivaldi's last great work, reduced to ruin and scrap in a flash.

"Are you sure about that?" Sindri questions.

"By Hárbarðr's frozen nipples, I hope so!" Brok wishfully says.

With no actions to be taken, without endangering themselves, they return to their post. Swiftly, they get to rebuilding their workshop. Only minutes pass before everything settles, and the dwarves return to doing what they do best. However, after some lost time of hammering away and sharpening their blades, another disturbance emerges. The sound of heavy steps and grinding metal approaches them.

Looking into the foggy entrance of the maze, the silhouette of a man appears. Just as the dwarves prepare to mask themselves, the figure's features reak of familiarity. Atreus, bloody, bruised, he marches forward in triumph. Chains over his shoulder and in hand, he hauls his reward behind him. The chest of Ivaldi is also tide to his back, with a dark shade of rope.

"Look at that!" Brok comments with a chuckle. "I told you he'd be fine!"

After leaving the mist, what he drags behind him becomes as apparent as diamonds among coal. Wrapped and bound by the chains of Atreus's blades, is the head of the Lindworm. Its jaw hangs open, broken, and still bleeding all the way through Ivaldi's workshop. The plates on its skull and what's left of its neck remain in pristine condition.

"And he brought a head back with him," Sindri adds, revolted by this sight. Unable to keep back the revulsion, he rushes away from Atreus.

"What's with you and your father dismembering heads?" Brok jokingly asks.

Atreus, weary from his battle and hauling, has no response. Instead, he lets out an amused scuff. The moment he reaches the Huldra brothers, he lowers the chains from his shoulders. A sudden whiff of the aroma around them immediately knocks the wind from the blue dwarf's lungs. Instantly, he creates a broad gap of space between them.

"Gods, you smell as shitty as you look!" He spews in disgust, likely referring to Atreus's wounds. "I thought Thor's ale breath was horrendous!"

"Thankfully, I don't feel as bad as I look," Atreus replies, tiresome. "Have you ever seen a creature like this?"

Maneuvering around Atreus to avoid the Lindworms odor on him, he steadily approaches the decapitated head. The Dwarf examines every part of the skull, from its jaws, scales, and even the craft of its armor. Still, he keeps his distance to avoid the decaying stench, and in case it's head spontaneous moves.

"I think I recognize the craftsmanship," Brok adds. "However, the head it's attached to, I got no fucking idea."

"I see," Atreus says with solicitude. "Do you think you two could make something out of this?"

Atreus knocks on the black steel once more. Sindri, after cleansing his gut, approaches right then. Overhearing the conversation, he, too, studies the shielding. Of course, at a distance to prevent hurling up any other past meals of the day. Even so, the longer his sights rest on the serpent, his gag reflex antagonizes him.

"I think..." Sindri is incapable of finishing a single sentence. "We might be..." Once more, he lets out a noise that embodies pure sickness.

"We might have an idea for it," Brok finishes the statement. "Let's bring this back to Midgard!"

In a moment's notice, the Huldra Brothers rapidly begin packing their things in their endless bags. The dwarves are absent-minded to Atreus's exhausted expression while shoving and throwing their tools into their sacks.

"We can't do it here?" Atreus asks.

"Oh heavens, no," Sindri answers. "Too many beasties here, it's too hard to concentrate."

"Speak for yourself, my lunch is waiting for me back at the temple," Brok comments. "Come one, boy! You need to pack on some muscle anyways!"

In a matter of seconds, their shop is packed. In haste, the Huldra Brothers take their leave, leaving him behind. Atreus stands puzzled but expecting as much from the peculiar duo. Without objection, Atreus pulls the chains back over his shoulders. With one hard push, he drags along the head of the Lindworm. Though the heavy load is not too challenging, the battle before was. The memory lets Atreus's mind wander off along with his feet. His next course of action may be just as impossible as his primary goal.

* * *

Back in Midgard, at the temple of Tyr, Freya at last returns. She descends like a glimmering star from the skies, landing right at the entrance. The Goddess is armed, equipped, and ready for whatever battles lie ahead of her. With much time to think, and ponder, she doesn't hesitate to enter. Her hatred towards Kratos may linger, but her desire to rally behind Atreus buries her Vanir fury.

Upon walking inside, what she finds strikes her with intrigue and concern. Both the Huldra Brothers, as well as an injured Atreus, work to pry the armor from the Lindworms skull. The metallic, scaley dense flesh clings to the plates. The Son of Kratos digs his heels into its jaw for support, while shoving the sides of it off. With ropes and curved, sharp bars, Brok and Sindri pull and yank away at the dead skin. Despite having a tether that keeps him far from the gore, the germaphobic dwarf still gags and breaths in disgust.

"Atreus, you can't push like that!" Brok states. "Not like that, either!"

"Then how should I do it?" Atreus questions impatiently.

"Get down and dirty under it, and push at the curved end, so you don't harm it!"

"Oh, I'm gonna hurl..." Sindri whispers, looking away from the deed.

As instructed, Atreus rips and breaks off the clinging skin. With some of the tendons out of his way, he lowers himself beneath the shielding. With one more hard push and pull from the three of them, the shard of armor flings off. The three lower and avoid being hit with the ricochet steel that bounces around them. Finally, it lands and skids toward the Vanir Goddess. She raises her foot to meet it, halting it in its tracks.

"Oh, hey Freya," Atreus greets her, poorly wiping himself off.

"Are you alright?" She questions, switching her focus back and forth between him and the head. "What is that?"

"I'm not sure..."

Just as Atreus makes his way towards her, the Goddess halts him in place with a spell. Her hand glimmers with vibrant blue and white magics, covering his body from neck to toe with enchanting water. After his body is drenched, a flick of her wrist transmutes the liquid into powerful winds. The handful of seconds that transpired has left him and his equipment immaculate. Clean and cleansed from the battles earlier. Without any more stains coating his flesh, his old wounds now show to have healed over.

"That's impressive," he comments in delight.

"My father is the god of the sea," Freya says, shoving the plate back to the dwarves. "I learned some of his tricks..."

Thinking of her family, an instant expression of guilt masks her face. A sigh of lonesomeness breezes from her lips. Although the Huldra Brothers can ignore the turmoil, Atreus spots it with the same ease a hawk can locate its prey.

"So, I heard you had to commune with some of your friends," Atreus mentions, shifting the topic.

"With some spirits," she adds. "Including the Valkyries..."

"What did they have to say?"

"Sadly, they can't bring Mimir's soul out of Helheim. He is too far out of their reach... More importantly, they seek an audience with you."

Thinking back to when he and his father freed them, Atreus was fond and fascinated with their charge. Although they served Odin, their loyalty was not his own to meddle and toy with. Honored, the Son of Kratos nods his head proudly. Having them as allies boost his courage, tenfold.

"That will have to wait," he replies while heading back to the Lindworm's head. "There are a few things that must be done, but I will need their help in the next phase of my plan."

"What plan?" Freya questions following behind.

"I'll explain in a little bit..."

The dwarves finish carving the last piece of armor from the serpent, with considerable ease in comparison to before. The flesh, though messy, was far easier to cut through. Eager to work, the brothers' drag it to their workbench. Of course, Sindri keeps his space, already lightheaded from the few times he's already puked. Just as the Goddess and the Son of Kratos reach the decapitated skull of the Lindworm, Freya's eyes widen. An unsuspecting spark of puzzlement scrambles her previous thoughts, directing her to recognize the beast. Her legs cave, dropping her to one knee to get a closer examination of the creature. Atreus stares just as confused, but for her actions and reasoning behind them.

"A Lindworm..." Freya mutters to herself.

The quiet mention of the name freezes the dwarves in place. Just as they were about to get to work, they jerk their heads in Freya's direction.

"A Lindworm?" Atreus and the dwarves ask simultaneously.

"You know what this thing is?" Atreus questions deeper.

"What it is, is impossible!" Sindri states, walking to them. Brok follows just behind, with an expression of denial matching his brother. "We dwarves have never seen one, but I think we'd know if something like this was in our realm!"

"That's because it didn't come from Niflheim..." Atreus adds. He crosses his arms sternly while thinking back to their encounter. Nothing about it made sense, along with everything that came before it. Every story told to him, every legend spoke before bed, never had such an event occur. The group gathers close to him, intrigued by his suspenseful comment.

"Where did it come from, then?" Freya asks.

"It's hard to say," he replies, beginning to pace the room as he describes the event. "Beneath Ivaldi's workshop, the things I saw and felt trembled my mind and understanding of the world... Before I encountered it, I felt the earth rumble beneath my feet... And a voice, calling out, bringing me to my knees from the power of its words..."

"A voice?" Freya questions.

"An earthquake?" The dwarves alternatively ask.

"Unless your speaking about the workshop combusting, we didn't feel an earthquake," Sindri says in disbelief.

The memory of such raw power weakening his will to fight still lingers in Atreus. A hint of denial beats in his chest along with his heart. Surely, he couldn't have been the only one to sense it.

"How is that possible?" Atreus asks the dwarves'.

"More importantly, the voice that called upon such forces. Do you know who or what it was?" Freya pushes harder on the topic.

The Son of Kratos shivers, as though the call is still locked and whispering inside him. He gently shakes his head, resettling his tense nerves.

"I don't know," he answers. "Whatever it was, just by talking, it tore a rift in the realm... That's how the Lindworm came into Niflheim."

"A rift, to where?" Freya asks.

"To a place, I hope never to find myself standing at..." Thinking of the vision once more rattles Atreus's heart. That version of himself yearned for bloodshed and anarchy, such arrogance, equivalent to when he learned of his godhood. Though the person he saw was him, he would never desire such dreadful chaos voluntarily.

"So much fire, conflict, rage, and death," Atreus mutters. "A battlefield within a golden kingdom..."

"Giant walls?" Freya asks. "A massive crowned tower?"

His head is cleared of anxiousness and is driven to focus on the Vanir Goddess. In silence, he stares disturbed that she can decipher and pick out the key features in the vision. By the cold and unsettling expressions of the dwarves, even they know what she speaks of.

"That is Asgard," Freya answers fearfully. "The empire of war, home of the Aesir, the seat of Odin's legacy... Forged in fire, blood, and the trophies of his conquest..."

"That can't be possible," Sindri states in opposition. "The only place you can find a Lindworm is-"

"Muspelheim... The primordial realm of fire," Freya ominously mentions.

The room is silent at the several oddities of these seemingly unconnected events. Though several suspicions linger on each of their minds like starving leeches, none of them can state those suggestions with certainty. The dwarves' ideas are just nonsensical and jumbled with other theories, creating a deaf mess in their intertwined thinking. Freya, for all of her centuries of knowledge and understanding, can't fathom what's the source of such chaotic magics. The world is imbalanced, and Ragnarök is nearly here.

"War is upon us, and the worlds of Ygdrassil tremble at the impending twilight of the realms," Atreus states. "Whatever's coming, we need to be ready for it!"

"How?" The group asks, still puzzled over the past abnormalities.

A moment of soundless suspense follows as Atreus ponders how to state his plan. Many times, has he spoken about his goals. Each one, more absurd than the previous, and always leaving his friends in disarray. Still, to accomplish the impossible, and stand against Odin, one must take the most drastic actions. With a hushed nod, he turns to his allies with courage behind his words.

"I need to build an army to oppose the Allfather, and Thor," Atreus states.

"An army?" The group questions.

"Yes, as much as I appreciate every one of you. We're no match for Odin and his legion."

"Of course," Freya notes. "But what you're proposing is undeniably reckless and unlikely to come easy."

During Atreus and the Vanir Goddess's conversation, the dwarves decide to slip away. Heading to their worktables to multitask with working at their forge, while engaging in the conversation.

"Many have tried to stand against my ex-husband, most were wiped out by his numbers and raw prowess," Freya mentions. "The only ones who could hold their ground were my people, the Vanir, and the Jötnar. Which has yet to resume..."

"Why is that?" Atreus asks, crossing his arms.

"I'm not sure, whatever the reason, Odin is somehow keeping my people in line. Preventing them from taking any actions against him. Without the way to my realm being open, I can't learn why."

"Not just your realm, lady," Brok chimes in.

Immediately, Atreus and Freya turn to the Huldra Brothers. They approach as the master smiths prepare themselves to hammer away at their new project.

"Odin's locked up the remaining three realms with some kind of powerful magic," Brok mentions. Both he and his brother scrutinize the headpiece of the Lindworm thoroughly. "It's clear the one-eyed shit stain is becoming more paranoid, the closer Ragnarök comes."

"Which we need to unlock anyways," Sindri comments. He's scrubbing away the blood from the black steel repulsively. "The metals we need to forge the Ferryman's Lantern are in Svartalfheim."

"Freya," Atreus calls her. "Can you dispel the curse on the gates?"

The Goddess, overwhelmed by everything around her, is hesitant to reply. Concern clouds her judgment over Atreus's plan, as well as the mysteries surrounding him. Her maternal instincts drive her to stand defiant towards the risks he's taking. Centuries of war have left their mark on her. However, her warrior spirit beckons her to stand valiantly at his side. Confliction pulls at her from both ends, neither side tipping or having the upper hand.

"I-I can try, but," her words are scattered in her broken breath. "Atreus, how do you intend on approaching this solution?"

"I can bet that most people, in all the nine realms, would love the chance to take a shot at Odin if they could," Atreus presumes. "In fact, I know where to start."

Even with his words of confidence, Freya still isn't at ease. Openly challenging Odin with an army could be considered suicide in many eyes. However, just as she's about to push the topic on, an optimistic comment leaves her dismissed.

"Being the son of Laufey the Just, who better to have faith in," Sindri compliments.

Freya looks down at the trusting dwarves'. Even after all they've been through, knowing what's at stake, they blindly follow behind Atreus. Though his intentions are far fetched and challenging fate itself, the Huldra Brothers don't think twice about supporting The Last Son of Sparta.

"You believe he can do it?" Freya asks in awe.

"Why the fuck not?" Brok answers.

"If he's willing to try to do better, why shouldn't we," Sindri responds.

"However..." The two comment together.

Rummaging at last through Ivaldi's treasure, the two study and admire his equipment. A glistening hammer of gold and perfectly clean metal shines in Brok's hand. Tongs, and a whetstone of equal caliber glimmers in Sindri's possession. Even a pair of golden gauntlets bleed with energy. Each object radiates with astonishing amounts of magic.

"If you're going to build an army, you'll need to dawn the right weapons and armor for war," Brok states, relishing Ivaldi's work. "Which we're "the" masters of crafting."

"Let's take a look at your gear, Atreus," Sindri asks.

Ecstatic at the dwarves making long-awaited improvements, the Son of Faye immediately obliges to their request. One by one, Atreus hands over his arsenal, lining them up on the worktable for the dwarves' to work on. As the Huldra Brothers get to work, he and Freya rest on the sides. Before their eyes, enchanting sparks of random colors flurry around the room. The energies from Ivaldi's assortment illuminate the forge and the crafts of the dwarves'. Even the fires of the furnace shift from gold to orange and red flames.

The ease of working with such magically enhanced tools expedites the Huldra Brother's craftsmanship. Within a few minutes, there work is complete. Layed out just as before, a fresh, clean look has been hammered and ground onto Atreus's arsenal. However, just as he's about to reach for them, the dwarves' have one more surprise for him.

"Hold it there, boy," Brok interrupts. "You got to put this on first."

From within the heart of their forge, Sindri and Brok relinquish the now reforged metal of the Lindworm. What they lay bear, is a set of black and crimson armor, fitted perfectly for Atreus. The arm and shoulder plates are layered, with sharp blades at the center of each fragment. The chest armor is lightweight, able to be concealed by the leather vest Atreus already wears. With leather underneath for comfort, but only covering his lower torso. The leg shielding and boots match the arm and shoulder pieces.

Too excited for words, Atreus smiles cheerfully while approaching. Freya stands close but gives him enough space to dress. The only fabric the Son of Kratos removes is his fur vest. Paying tribute to his father, Atreus has his father's symbol of war tattooed to his back. Two wolf-like figures are marked on each side of it, with runes meaning "Just and Mighty" at the center. Among all of the runes and sigils, one other detail stands out to Freya. Scars of claw marks on both sides of his back, but not of any animal.

Before Freya can study the old cuts, Atreus begins arming himself. The rigid armor fits adequately and with ease. The Last Son of Sparta cannot help but admire the detail in the craft.

"We call it "Wyrm Slayer!" Sindri states proudly.

"A nice fire retardant armor, that adds a boost to defense, without harming your speed," Brok notes.

"Along with that, your arsenal is back to its peak state. Nice and sharp, and ready to be shot, thrown, or swung to kill your foes."

"Excellent," Atreus comments. "I can't thank you guys enough." One by one, he re-equips himself. Reapplying Trolls Bane and the chains to his arms, sheathing his blades and bow, and refilling his quiver. All of which, doing so in a hurry. For one, time is of the essence, and two, he's eager to run his weapons through a test run.

"One more thing," Sindri adds. "With your equipment back into tip-top shape, and if you still remember. You might be able to do some of those old tricks you use to do when you were a kid."

"I guess I'll have to give it a try," Atreus says with anticipation.

"I'll look into dispelling Odin's magic," Freya says in high hopes. "What will you do in the meantime?"

"Get some recruits," Atreus states, fastening his weaponry to his gear.

"From where?"

"Alfheim."

His subtle comment ceases all actions in the room. The dwarves' halt in disarray during their work. It's only when Atreus finishes coupling his equipment that he notices the looks of confusion.

"You're going to try to recruit the elves?" The dwarves ask, perturbed.

"I have a history with both the clans," Atreus mentions. "I helped the light elves, and even spoke with the dark elf king years ago." Before he can go on, he stops himself. Silent at the crucial detail of murdering the Dark Elves leader. Choosing not to say so to prevent any other worrying. "Maybe if I'm lucky, they both will hear me out."

"And if not?" Sindri asks.

"You'll find out when I get back."

"Be careful," Freya requests.

To help ease her anxiousness towards his safety, he places a firm yet comforting hand on her shoulder. Leading to the two of them shaking hands once more, like his father and her long ago.

"I will," Atreus replies. "You all do the same, I'll be back as soon as I can."

Onward he goes, heading directly to the travel room. His supplies restocked, weapons enhanced, and with a new set of armor, Atreus is ready. It's been many years since he's seen the elven realm. To this day, the war is most likely still ongoing. Countless, and needless deaths spanning years without reason. To break such a cycle that could fill lakes with blood, will be a challenge only a god could do. A great danger lies ahead, potentially from both ends with him at the center of the war.

Yet, this is only but the peak of his issues. Although not openly mentioned, there is one other reason he wishes to visit the bridge of life and death. To find answers and to hopefully reunite with those who he believes can help him the most. His mother and father, perhaps waiting for him at the light, just like all those years ago. No matter what threats stand in his way, he will claw and break his way to see them again.

However, there's but one other detail that could cause him complications. Upon entering the travel room, a familiar display of magic glimmers around the white tree. Emerald streams of sparkling light float in the air like a thick fragrance. It forms a cloud around him, adding more beauty to the Bifrost chamber. Whoever the mystery woman was from before, she knows how to travel between realms. What makes this all the more peculiar is where this trail of magic leads. Straight to the door of Alfheim.


	11. A War on Three Fronts

Over a decade has passed since Atreus journeyed to the elven world. Though the enchanting realm possed many marvels, the ongoing war defiles its beauty. Death, carnage, and violence have stained the deepest soils of Alfheim. Even to this day, Atreus wonders which side was in the right? Were the barbarous dark elves fighting injustice, or was the light mercilessly subjugated to their cruelty? One way or another, the Son of Kratos will learn the truth. In doing so, he will accomplish the impossible. Unite the two clans against the Aesirs' reign.

The soothing red-violet lights of the tree and chamber don't affect his tense mindset. Behind those golden gates, and outside the temple, a battle awaits. Unlike before, his actions must be discreet, carefully planned out. Every small mistake could ripple, and cost him potential allies in the war that's to come. Making his way out of Tyr's structure, a pleasant serenity envelops his senses. An unnatural calmness drives Atreus to be even more concerned. Once prying his way to the gardens outside, he draws his bow and arrows.

"By Yggdrasil," Atreus mutters.

A luminescent sight conflicts his mind and heart. Unlike his previous visits, the pillar of light doesn't overflow with a radiance or fade in darkness. Before his eyes, the beam flickers and shifts into several alternative shades of color. The heavens fluctuate as well, neither shadow nor light holds sovereignty over the sacred tower. Before he can make sense of the anomaly, a disturbance brings him to his knees.

"What the hel..." Atreus says with a primal growl prying through his throat.

Voices, dozens if not hundreds, cry out in his consciousness. Chaos, disorder, confusion, and terror all jumble the tones of each pleading spirit in his mind. The pain of their chants stretches beyond his head. Every nerve stings and hardens his body, even his veins swell in agony. None of their words or outcries are comprehendible. Yet, they all signify an infamous force in their realm. Just as the wall of voices crashed into Atreus, they vanish in a second.

"Something's wrong," Atreus whispers, regaining his senses and composure rapidly.

Subtle and reclusive, he traverses through the forests of otherworldly beauty. Arrows are in one hand, and his bow in the other. While the scenery is serene, and the rivers are mellow, something still feels amiss. Not far into his travels, he uncovers the answer to this mystery.

Littering the fields and ruins, are the bodies of elves, and Asgard's soldiers. Odin's forces have placed a foothold on the elven plain. A three-sided war, with Atreus, caught at the epicenter. However, the damage and lingering carcasses are fresh. This conflict couldn't span any longer than a few days. Sadly, the Son of Faye cannot investigate any further. From the forests, clashing of steel, and slashing of flesh reaches his ears. Frantically, Atreus hurls himself over the thick roots of a tree for cover.

A moment passes as he hides, and no further noises are heard. Peeking through a sliver of an opening, he observes the direction of the battle. Immediately, in a panic, a lone dark elf gravely wounded glides and sprints away. Though his legs carry him far, he cannot outrun the swiftness of an arrow. From behind, as if seeking the dark elf, a single gold arrow streaks through the air. Soundless, until striking the elf's skull, slaying him instantly.

From the glistening trees, a golden and bronze-clad maiden emerges. Her hair is fiery red and braided for the battlefield. Much to Atreus's dismay, the girl is only a child, a teen at best. Still, even with her small stature, she dawns an overweighed set of armor. In her iron grasp, is another seax blade, much like Atreus's. Except with a surpassing amount of length, and the sparks of lightning in the metal.

Eagerly rushing from behind, another warrior approaches. This man very much resembles Atreus in physique and attire. A mixed match of grey and ebony fur, leather, and shining steel, shields nearly every part of his body. A bow in his hands and two duel axes, with runes carved into them, rest at his sides. Atreus can make out barely anything through his hood. What he does spot is the hunter has Cyan blue eyes and markings coming down and over his eyelids. The man has no more than a dirty blonde, stubble of a beard with a long flowing head of hair.

"Was that necessary, Ullr?" The girl questions irritably.

"There wouldn't be honor in the kill if I didn't give him a chance," the archer states. "You of all people should understand honor, Thrúd."

As the hunter kneels to examine his kill, another stranger follows behind them. This man stands out among them for several reasons. First is his royal style of clothing, a mixture of black robes and thin, gold plated armor shrouds him. Several sigils are carved, patterned, and marked onto him and his equipment. Upon his back, is a long, pristine spear with similar runes and metal. Accompanying it is a black, longbow, with large claws and scales melded to the weapon. One distinguishable detail is the golden sash over the stranger's eyes. Despite his concealed vision, he found his way through the flourishing forest.

"Uncle, did you see that-" Just as Ullr turns to the spearman, he ceases his question.

An awkward moment of absent noise lingers in the atmosphere. Even the stern maiden shakes her head in irritation. Ullr lowers his head, shameful of his comment.

"No, I'm afraid I missed it," the stranger jokingly replies. "But I will say that it was a little sloppy."

Thrúd, Ullr, and unbeknownst to them, Atreus are stunned by the blind critique. The more this group converses and interact, the more the Son of Kratos worries, and ponders their purpose here. He continues ducking behind the thick roots of the tree. It's quickly become apparent that these three are unlike any of Odin's ordinary soldiers. From the stories told, he recognizes the name Ullr, the Aesir god of sport and archery. The other two are a mystery that he hopes to uncover soon.

"How so?" Ullr questions.

"I can hear the imbalanced shot of your arrow as it whistled through the air," the stranger notes, pointing to his ears.

Just as he states his review, he retrieves his black bow in the blink of an eye. Without redirecting himself, he fires one of his ebony arrows through the air. Even with no incantation, his shot becomes consumed by silent shadow. A pitch dark smoke trails behind it. Despite his blind and unconventional choice in firing, the archer hits his mark. A Dark Elf assassin descends rapidly from the trees, crashing into the sands with an arrow in between its eyes.

"Like the one firing it, the arrow must be unseen, swift, and impossible to hear when going for the kill," the blind-folded stranger claims.

Never has such skill ever been witnessed by Atreus. Not even his mother or father have ever shown to fire an arrow with such precision. How could someone without sight be so well trained to hit his mark so accurately? What was that magic that he used? It was dark, unnatural, nothing that he's ever heard of or seen before. Atreus is frozen in awe, speechless at the sliver of skill presented by this stranger. Even though he and Ullr are fascinated with the display, Thrúd's impatience overcomes her composure.

"You two bore me!" She spouts in agitation. "I'll go on ahead, see if there's anything worth fighting in this backwater realm!"

In an instant, a set of majestic, crimson gold wings sprouts from the child's back. With a single flap, the girl shoots herself into the color fluctuating sky. Her allies watch as she departs with haste. In but a moment or two, Thrúd vanishes. Ullr and the stranger stare up, despite the latter unable to witness it. With what little Atreus has learned, the maiden reminds him of his time as a boy. More specifically, when he first learned of his godhood. Divine hubris must be a common thing, at least he presumes.

"She's without a doubt your father's daughter, Ullr," the archer comments. "Such a temper can only come from one pair of loins."

"Indeed," Ullr replies with a chuckle. "And I have to deal with it every day."

"However, she does have a point... Why have you brought me here?"

"The girl is here..."

At the subtle mention, Ullr has strung both Atreus and his uncle's undivided attention. Even with his gold sash, an apparent look of intrigue manifests on the stranger. Could the Allfather himself have interested in the mysterious girl? Whatever Valhalla's fascinations are, it can only spell out misery for her if discovered.

"Are you certain?" The blind archer questions.

"I've tracked her here," Ullr attests, clenching a piece of her white fabric. "The sorceress seeks something in Alfheim, but I can't imagine what..."

Ullr's expression turns to eager frustration the longer he clings on the thought. Even his hand trembles out of impatience. Without witnessing the display of displeasure, the stranger approaches him. A pat on the Sport God's shoulder ceases his worries.

"I'm impressed that you narrowed her location. The girl has even managed to allude me with her magic," the blind archer says in uplifting passing. He begins pacing the garden, taking in a breath of the enchanting air. "Here, I thought you didn't care to earn Thor's praise..."

The mere mention of the God of Thunder, sparks frigid trauma in Atreus. His teeth clamp shut, and every nerve in his body trembles him. Each strand and tendon in Atreus's muscles tense and flex anxiously. Even in his adulthood, that night, when Thor came to his home has left its mark on him. His whole world crumbled on top of him, stripping him of the last loved one he had. Backtracking on those memories, delusions his mind. A subtle flinch occurs when he mistakes hearing lightning in the distance.

"He's not my father," Ullr states sickeningly.

The Aesir's comment immediately quells Atreus's anxiety. Both he and Ullr share a collective perspective. Despisal for the God of Thunder.

"He's just a drunk sack that shares a bed with my mother," Ullr spouts distastefully.

The stranger smirks in humor toward the insult. A soft chuckle even slips through his teeth. Once more, his hand gently taps the distressed deity.

"Though I will not protest, I will also take no part in insulting my brother," the stranger replies.

Atreus lays his belly firm on the ground, continuing to peek through the roots of a tree. The best he can do is remain hidden, having numbers and potentially power stacked against him. Even so, his hand instinctually grasps the handle of his Seax. Internally, his body is ready to engage in combat, with his thoughts and rationalization locking him at bay.

"Perhaps if you succeed, the Allfather will give you your well-earned recognition instead," the Stranger comments assuredly. "Now, let us continue with our hunt."

With the two at last departing from the area, Atreus crawls steadily away. To his ears, no sound emits to compromise his location. However, while Ullr moves on ahead promptly, the stranger remains firm in place. For the moment, the Son of Faye dismisses his attempt to skulk from the garden. His eyes are glued on the archer, especially with what he does next. The Blind Aesir's padded feet shift in the sands, directing towards him. The rhythm of Atreus's heartbeats shakes his ribcage. He closes his throat to shield the noise of his breathing. Yet no matter what he does, the stranger gazes to his location.

Inhumanly fast, the archer draws his bow and let's loose another arrow. This one, however, possesses no dark, magical quality. Yet moves with the force of a hurling boulder. Atreus throws himself behind the tree, the sound of his action being muffled by the piercing shot. Which, shreds through the rooted oak like a blade through paper. Now out of sight, and shielded, Atreus lowers himself for cover. The stranger stands, nodding with intrigue. Ullr in haste returns after hearing the ruckus.

"What is it, uncle?" He questions, looking in the direction of the damage.

"Curious..." The Blind Aesir comments in mild fascination. His nephew, despite how far out he looks, doesn't glimpse any trace of Atreus.

"Is it more of the elves?" Ullr asks.

"It's no elf..." The uncle replies. "We must be on our guard, we're not the only ones who have come to Alfheim."

Indecisive, the Aesir god of sport glances back and forth between his uncle and the trees. The ominous answer only adds more confusion to his senses. Still, his unfaltering loyalty sways him to obey. He steadily marches down the same path, glimpsing over his shoulder repeatedly until out of sight. With the other Aesir gone, only the blind stranger remains. Atreus boldly tilts his head out to see his attempted assailant. His heart pounds even harder when they hone in on one another.

The unnamed Aesir smirks in his direction. Even without the ability of sight, he knows full well that Atreus is near. This message of bravado shakes the Last Son of Sparta to the core. He can only hold himself at bay carefully as the Aesir takes his leave. Drawing his gold and black spear, the blind archer smacks the nearest solid object. An ear-piercing echo screeches through the air, even ringing in Atreus's head. With no reason to stay, the stranger follows the lingering sound out of the garden.

After a handful of soundless seconds, Atreus creeps his way out of cover. Though his enemies have left, his hesitance is absent when arming himself with his bow. The threat level of the realm has escalated far more than he could have anticipated. A war on three fronts, with enemies around every corner. However, this could also work to his advantage. Atreus now knows his objective, to push back Odin's forces to earn the trust of the elves. Though this will not win their favor, it will be a start.

First, he must find his way to the dark elven clan. They will prove the more difficult side to earn trust from due to their already natural hostility. Before the Aesir can return, Atreus rushes onward in an alternative route from the war gods. While moving towards the flourishing trees and brush, a thought looms over him. How did such a skilled archer miss him? The blind stranger's expression, his steady departure, and prolonged stance all point to one theory. The attack Atreus averted, was nothing more than a warning shot.

(Author's Notes)

Hello, everyone! I hope you're still enjoying the story thus far. I appreciate all the support, comments, and feedback, as always. I do apologize for releasing such a short chapter, but there's a reason for this.

The next few chapters will be very long and eventful. To try and add this with one of those chapters, might be too long and take a lot of time to complete.

I wanted to tease the next climax of the story. As I may have mentioned before, I over plan things a lot. This arc in Atreus's Future has been on my mind for some time. I've thought up several different variations of how this part of the tale would go, so I'm glad we've all made it this far.

I didn't want to keep anyone waiting for too long. As you may have noticed, I don't post very often. I tend to overwhelm myself with too many projects, which takes up a lot of my time. So while this chapter may not sate the hunger of reading for some, I do believe it's a nice appetizer.

I will still continue to aim for one chapter (at the very least) every month, maybe two if I'm on writer's block with my novel. I still love working on the story and haven't burnt myself out yet. There's still so much to tell, and I've barely scratched the surface of Atreus's journey. A lot lies in store for the Son of Kratos, and his war has only just begun. If anyone has any questions, feel free to leave a comment. I thank you all again for following and supporting my work. I wish you all a great day and wish you all the best during these dire times.


	12. An Oath Bound in Blood

The alternative route has little impact on Atreus's spacial awareness. Driven by unconscious intuition, he navigates the harmonious environment. Though the whispers taunt him at every corner, and the clashing of battle rings from every direction, he presses forward. Even with the war transpiring, much of the lush wildlife and nature remains intact. Without the noise, one would consider this realm to be blissful and serene. Armed, with his bowstring and arrow already in his fingers, he rushes to the nearest opening in the forests.

Atop a cliffside, Atreus witnesses the full magnitude of the assault. The Dark Elves engage with the forces Asgard across the stupendous realm. In the skies with Odin's soldiers atop hippogriffs', on the lake, or on the fields, the two sides continue to slaughter one another. One end, the lush and pristine lands from the influence of the light reside. While the other half, murky, disgusting, and rotten from the manipulation of the dark. With the armies of Valhalla scattered across both.

Countless arrows, enchanted bolts of light, and boulders of flame sore through the air in all directions. Currently, the Light Elves haven't taken part in the onslaught. No sign of them can be seen from the cliff's edge. Bodies fall as fast as new ones come into the fold, producing a stalemate of endless bloodshed.

"Does Odin's armies have no limit?" Atreus questions, stricken in disarray by the masses. "With Brok and Sindri helping Freya, I'm on my own here..."

The thought discourages him. To face the wrath of Asgard alone resurfaces the memories of his isolation. Very few people to speak with, nothing but blind years of plotting, and slaying any allies of the Aesir. Those lingering whispers and those flashes of conflict plague him. Yet no matter how disheartened he becomes, he will not yield to Valhalla's numbers. He needs to send them a message, one that anyone in Asgard would understand.

"Even alone, I won't be stopped," he mutters to himself. Across the sky, soaring near his location, is an Asgardian rider atop a hippogriff. His eyes lock onto the beast as it screeches furiously into the fray. The creature, along with its rider, is clad in the same golden armor as the rest of Valhalla's barbarians.

Strutting backward, lowering himself to all fours on the ground, he prepares to charge. With his target unaware of his presence, Atreus sprints forward. The sudden force behind his legs cracks the floor beneath him. Carefree and determined, he lunges off the cliff. His body moves with the power of a hurling boulder, ramming into the rider. The brute falls, with Atreus plummeting with him. However, a quick swing of Atreus's blades harmlessly wraps chains around the hippogriff's talon. The momentum of falling hurls him back atop the hippogriff.

In a panic, the beast flails its body and wings in all directions to rattle him off. The majestic creature's flight patterns become unsensible, and its screeches resonate loud enough to alert the other flight masters. Atreus, having no desire to cause harm to the beast, clings until it's persistence wavers. Finally, with the hippogriff steadying its flight, Atreus attempts to calm it.

"Vera logn!" He calls out, stroking the feathered mount's neck.

His firm yet comforting words bring instant ease to the Hippogriff. Its wings fold and straighten outward to course them through the dangerous air battle. Even a glimpse of questioning relief can be seen in the mount's gaze. The Son of Kratos tenderly runs his fingers through its glistening clean, silver feathers for assurance.

"Berjast og vera frjáls!" He says, granting a gentle pat to the creature.

Another screech cries from the mount's razor beak. With a single flap of its wings, they dash faster across the sky. Not far behind, more Asgardian riders tail Atreus. His blades sheathed, Atreus dawns the Talon Bow. Electricity pulsates from his string while pulling back his shots. A tug on the Hippogriff's harness, and it throws itself behind the attackers. With the advantage of position, Atreus releases his arrows. However, like years ago, the Son of Kratos reintroduces his mystic archery.

Upon contact with the first target, his arrow explodes, blasting the rider from his mount. Without harming the other carrier beasts, Atreus's arrow forms into a flock of electric hawks that spiral in all random directions. The mystic birds seek out the other riders, combusting with static energy on impact. No longer bound to their handlers, the other Hipporgriff's fly off, discluding the one Atreus continues to ride on. Again and again, more riders approach, flanking from all ends.

Without relent, Atreus continues to prove a worthy combatant in the air. His arrows of light and lightning hit their marks, annihilating his foes and forcing them to their plummeting demise. His swift maneuvers, with the hippogriff's aid, and on the fly decisions, keep his enemies at bay. On occasion, he suffers his scrapes and cuts from enemy fire, but his divine and Jötunn heritage allows him to endure the attacks with much ease. Eventually, though, his intervention hooks the focus of the Dark Elves.

With their fluttering, grisly wings, a swarm of the denizens pursues Atreus. Mistaking him for one of the invaders, they launch their assault in haste. Their battle cries alert Atreus to their location, which leads him to speed forward. Openly engaging them could cause complications down the line, so his desire of allies refrains him from attacking them. From their spears, they unleash a barrage of explosive beams at him as he flees. Once more, he guides the hippogriff to perform flips, dives, barrel rolls, and other tricks to avert their attacks.

Even a few daring Dark Elves charge headfirst at Atreus, lunging their spears at him and his mount. While taken back by the blind courage, the Last Son of Sparta still manages to counter the strikes. Relying on his brute strength to wrestle away their armaments, or fling his attackers away from his location. Or, at their allies to slow them down. Yet, despite his several efforts to show that he means no harm, the dark clan refuses to submit or reciprocate his offer.

With the commotion of the heavens, and the ongoing battle surrounding them, communication is unreliable here. With another whip of the hippogriff's harness, Atreus's mount darts directly downward. It's speed now outpaces the elves, forcing them to focus on the remaining warriors around them. With only a few moments to spare, and with nothing else concentrating on him, Atreus pulls the leash back to straighten the direction of the beast. Only a few feet separated them from crashing into the battle stained ground.

Both he and the hippogriff dart into the blackened forest of the Dark Elves region. The landing is rough as they crash through the bush and the elongated branches of the vile, rotting trees. A few scrapes later, and a clearing finally opens itself to them. An open field of dark sand presents itself, leading to an immediate landing. A cloud of dust and powder fills the air, as they pounce down onto the ground.

Despite the tiresome assault, and narrowing efforts to survive the airborne battle, the hippogriff remains unwearied. Atreus as well stands tireless, looking around at the environment. While the odor of the dark clans home strips the wind from him, his focus is unwavering. Taking advantage of the moment of peace, he proceeds to unharness the creature. Stripping it of its unsettling, hindering armor and binds.

Free from the confines of its captors, the hippogriff gives a bow of appreciation to Atreus. The Son of Kratos, in return, tender and kind with his intentions, runs his fingers through its silver-haired neck. Atreus's head rests against the creatures while rubbing its beak. A soothing purr, a song of gratitude emits from the mount's throat.

"Vertu frjáls," Atreus says, stepping back before giving a gratifying bow.

The hippogriff tips its head once more. Then, after extending its silver wings outward, releases another valorous screech. Launching off into the sky, it clears away the previous screen of sand around them. Joining its free kin, a flock of other hippogriffs vanishes into the clouds. From here, Atreus continues his journey on foot. His path made and sought out by the sounds of war. Lead like a moth to the flame, he eagerly rushes to the source of the commotion.

* * *

The landscape truly disgusts Atreus, especially considering this rot is intentional. The pulsating pink tethers link several trees and plants together. Yet, while the vegetation is disgusting, it also has an odd appeal to it. The alluring glow of the tendrils and plants, the growth patterns in the forest, some might find it intriguing. However, past the decaying oaks, is another sight of concern.

An arching gate of runic stone, standing several stories high, resides in an open field. This Bifrost bridge pours with warriors of Valhalla. Fueling the onslaught that's taken root within the realm of the elves. Atreus lowers himself behind a set of large stones. Reviewing the situation in front of him, he is outnumbered a hundred to one. This will need to be an attack from the shadows. He must reach the portal and destroy it.

Lowering himself onto his belly, he takes on the most subtle form he can manage. Faint blue energy shrouds his body, condensing him into that of a silver snake. Even when shifted, his blue brand stretches down his serpent body. Yet, his bright scales allow him to camouflage in the new, dead sands that surround him. With haste, he slithers his way across the fields.

As expected of the narrow-sighted warriors of Asgard, none are the wiser to Atreus's presence. His scaley form blends with near-perfect chemistry to the environment. It's comparable to diamonds among ice. Group after group of Asgardian's bat no eyes, or even acknowledge his existence. The warriors' chant and march, persistent in their crusade. It's not long before Atreus reaches the heart of the encampment. At which point, is when all chaos breaks loose.

From the skies, a swarm of Dark Elves descends like locusts on a field of crops. Their numbers too challenging to count, their relentlessness as savage as starving predators. Atreus's intervention earlier most likely allowed a large number of them to bypass Asgard's defenses. As their bolts of magic erupt in the war camp, Atreus takes this opportunity to further spread the flames of chaos.

In the heat of the battle, Atreus alters form ounce more. This time, dawning a beastly visage that Odin's forces would mistake in terror, or recognize in fear. Panic causes discord in their ranks, as they gaze upon the massive black wolf in their base. For a brief second, a handful of Alfheims denizens are puzzled by the animal. Preemptive in his attack, Atreus mauls his way through a squad of barbarians while charging to the gate.

Even as the enemy attempts to cut him off at every corner, his blade long fangs and claws cease their resistance. Ripping, shredding, and crushing every warrior that impedes on his attack. Discluding the few dark elves that brazenly approach. Who he leaps from and averts at all cost. Or leads them to groups of Asgardians, who show no restraint in battling one another. Until, Atreus, at last, reaches the Bifrost bridge. Now standing in his original form. Only to find that his next foe may prove troublesome.

One by one, effortlessly, Atreus watches as a single warrior of Valhalla bashes and clubs away a mass of Dark Elves. This was no ordinary brute among the rest. This was an Einherjar, the most elite of Odin's number. Not only does this chosen warrior possess a superior, stalwart armor, but also a far more dangerous arsenal. A massive flail lies in his grasp, and a great shield of the densest steel in the other, that nearly blockades his whole body. These were the higher ranking in the Aesir's army, never has Atreus faced one in battle. Only ever heard stories of their valor and bloody glory.

"I have heard stories of you," the Einherjar claims, spinning his chained, razor club around him. "The Wolf of Midgard, is the name the Aesir have bestowed upon your distasteful existence! I will be dining with Odin himself after I bring your head to him!"

"Not before I take yours!" Atreus retorts, clenching his fists.

Accepting the challenge, the Einherjar bashes his flail against his shield excitedly. Atreus, not as eager, draws his Blades of Chaos. The burning blue flames burst forth, dancing vibrantly around the twin swords. Only a moment passes while the two stare each other down. The sounds and cries of battle emit from all directions, adding fuel to the fiery atmosphere. Swift to make the first strike, Atreus rushes him.

His blades spin around him like a violent, searing vortex when lunging at the Einherjar. His attacks relentless, repetitive, as if trying to overwhelm the warrior's bulwark stance. However, even the Blades of Chaos prove to have trouble penetrating the barricade. A mass of sparks flies in all directions as his father's armaments slash across the black, and gold-rimmed steel. Preemptive, and unsuspected, the Einherjar bashes back with his shield. The repercussion of the counter-attack knocks Atreus back.

Not even a moment, to ponder how his foe possesses such prowess is given before the Einherjar rushes the Son of Kratos. His mighty flail comes crashing downward, the thick chain rattling in Atreus's head. Honed and focused, he averts the ground, shattering blow. Even so, the tremor from the strike is enough to stumble a mortal man or woman. Another oddity is the flail's chain being capable of extending to unnatural lengths. The same as Atreus's blades.

The elite warrior chuckles, mockingly at the Last Son of Sparta. Again, he smacks the hammer of his chained weapon on his towering shield.

"Come on!" The Einherjar loathingly challenges.

Complying, Atreus resorts to one of his upgraded abilities. Twirling the Greek blades like a flaming tornado, one of the gemstones within illuminates. With each swing and spin, waves of fire release in the direction of the Einherjar. While unable to defend himself from most of the chaotic blaze, the warrior remains firm. In retaliation, the elite Asgardian hurls his flail at Atreus.

The chainlink extends, breaking the distance that was placed between them. With each strike, the Son of Kratos ducks, dodges, and blocks the blows with Trolls Bane. Even so, with the ferocity of his enemy, it was only inevitable for Atreus to take a direct shot to the gut. Yet, just as another hit is about to be made, Atreus swings his blade as well. The two exchange brutal blows, the champion with a searing slash across his arm, and Atreus with a blow to the chest. For a moment, the two keep their distance. Like wild predators, they circle on opposite ends of each other. Even as the turmoil around them builds, the two fixate, and lock their focus on each other.

Until one anxious detail slips into Atreus's sight. A silhouette of dozens, if not hundreds of warriors, rushing to the Bridge from the other side of the Bifrost is seen. Another troubling aspect is what lies behind the opaque barrier, the heaven reaching tower of Asgard. With little time to spare before a legion is on top of him, Atreus's intent to kill becomes rushed and urgent. He quickly draws his Talon Bow. His fingers are already clung to his string, pulling it back, and his arrows pulsate with elemental energy, ready to fire. A look of irritable determination burns in his eyes as he pinpoints his mark.

"Bruni!" He shouts.

As the enflamed arrows scorch through the air, one of the Talon Bow's new gems activates. The single arrow shot bursts into a cluster of smaller balls of flame. The Einherjar slams his shield down, forming a sturdier formation to prevent harm. However, as the barrage makes contact with him, they release a series of miniature explosions around him. His whole body, engulfed in combustive flames and a cloud of smoke.

Sadly, as slightly expected, the warrior of Asgard does not fall so easily. Though his garbs are singed, his armor burning red, the Einherjar holds his ground. Instead, Atreus takes another approach. In rapid-fire, he hurls his flaming arrows. Unsuspecting, as the Asgardian covers himself, it becomes apparent that the shots aren't making contact. One by one, each engulfed bolt passes him. Explosions go off behind, nowhere near either of them.

"You're aim is weaker than the damned elves!" The Einherjar spouts antagonistically.

Despite the insult, Atreus is unfazed by the harsh comment. Instead, a haughty smirk forms on his face. Confusion already blinds the Asgardian, preventing him from realizing the problem behind him. The sound of crumbling stone creaks behind him. The elite warrior finally turns himself to the location of the blasts. Atreus's aim shows to have been directed to weaken the structure of the arching gateway.

Before the Asgardian can react, the foundation begins to crumble. The solid stone shatters, creating a chain of crumbling through the construct. The Bifrost follows after, the visage of Asgard falls apart like broken glass. The crashing debris clouds the camp, corroding it in a dense fume of dust. Even for a moment, the rage-fueled forces of Asgard and Alfheim cease their onslaught. However, taking up the golden opportunity to use the blinding cloud against their foes, the elves rush to the air. With their spears, they unleash a bombardment of their elven magic atop their enemies. The remaining Asgardians numbers rapidly drop from the last assault.

As for Atreus, he remained firm, knowing that his challenger would not be vanquished so easily. With no allies coming to aid the Einherjar, the Last Son of Sparta can end this fight once and for all. He, too, uses the cloud around him to gain the upper hand. As the Asgardian reinforces his defensive pose, Atreus moves in for the kill. With a fling of his wrist, he sends out the seax blade in a perfect, straight line. Yet, just like before, his shot slips past his enemy.

However, just as the shortsword does, Atreus calls it back. With the Einherjar in the way, the blade plunges itself into his back. The piercing pain brings the warrior to his knees, granting the Son of Kratos with his opening. Unable to bring his shield up in time, Atreus tears the bulwark from his arm using the Blades of Chaos. With his defenses gone, the Asgardian becomes angrily desperate. Blindly, he swings and flings his flail violently, only for his counter attack to prove just as futile.

Tearing the scorching blade into his arm, Atreus disarms him in a literal sense. No shield and no weapon or limb to hold it, the Einherjar is at his enemy's mercy. Who only ends him swiftly. He digs the Blades of Chaos at each end of the warrior's neck, before cleaving them through. The head of Odin's chosen flies, tumbling across the ruins of the war camp. Victorious, Atreus stands, having made a drastic impact in the Aesir's plans to conquer Alfheim. He sheaths his blades that are stained red and pulls the seax from his enemy's back.

Moments pass, the air becomes cloudless and clean enough to inhale deeply. Atreus does just that, a freshness of relief cleanses his tense nerves when doing so.

"What could the Aesir want with Alfheim?" Atreus questions. With a brief break to himself, he can finally ask himself a few needed questions. "Why attack now? Why send such a large force, especially ones like the Einherjar?" He glimpses back to the corpse of his enemy, now pondering how this individual was so much more enhanced compared to the rest. "Odin must be experimenting with some type of forbidden magic, it wouldn't be the first time..."

Sadly, his questions would have to wait. Though very subtle, the clicking of an angry Dark Elf's tongue resonates. In a single dash, an elf attempts to plunge his spear into him. Yet, with a quick swerve of his body, Atreus averts the attack. Grabbing onto the polearm, and ramming his elbow into its neck, he pins the denizen into the nearest formation. His actions of self-defense draw out the remaining forces of the dark clan. Who blocks off all of his ways of escape, and incircle him.

"You'll die, outsider!" The creature spews in its native tongue. The sound of its language forms a mix of emphasizing R's, prolonging lisps, hisses, and deep growls and groans.

"Cease your resistance!" Atreus shouts, mimicking the language without their broad accent.

His knowledge of their spoken speech silences the militia around him. Even the struggling Dark Elf who's pinned freezes. Each of the dark clansmen glances and chatter among themselves in shock and confusion.

"You speak our tongue?" the pinned Dark Elf questions.

"I've had years of practice," Atreus replies.

He steadily removes his grasp on the elf, gradually making a gap between him. The warrior gags and coughs while clenching its throat. The other elves remain at bay, uncertain of what actions should be taken.

"You do not belong here, marked one," the elf claims. "This land only belongs to our kind!"

"The ones that don't belong are the gilded warriors," Atreus replies. "We have a common enemy!"

Once more, the denizens of Alfheim speak amongst themselves. Their conversation reduced to a whisper in Atreus's presence. With only the elf close to him being left out, and only able to look out to his muttering kin. Atreus patiently awaits their judging verdict. Quiet, but closely paying attention to their words. Some debate his being in their realm, while others dispute him being of help to them. Eventually, the apparent leader of the squad, superior in size, and armed with more concealed garments steps forward.

"Our king will determine you're worth," he claims, scowling at Atreus. "Follow!"

Despite the irritation of being ordered around, he abstains from talking back harshly. Only returning the stern glare as an immediate reaction. His unintimidated stare sends shivers through the tall, Dark Elf, who steps away. As the elves lift themselves into the air, they return to the rotting forests. Keeping an even pace with them, Atreus rushes behind without the aid of his shapeshifting. Taking to the skies in his bird form would leave him too vulnerable. Especially around those, he's uncertain about trusting, yet.

* * *

A short lap of time passes, and the squad of elven warriors keeps close to Atreus. He has slowed down his pace, to examine and study his surroundings. The further they traverse these decaying jungles, the more that pulsating, pink fungus appears. The mushrooms and plants illuminate and guide the group through the thick blackness. The elves mutter to themselves during the journey. Some have many questions, others only spouting insults under their breath at the Son of Kratos. Looking past the fact that he can understand them.

Atreus ignores it, knowing that they speak out of fear of what he's proven to be capable of. Their glances and flinches to his stern stares make it evident. Eventually, they all reach a giant, luminescent hole, dug and carved out large enough to fit a dragon. The elves land, the leader of them nods, allowing entry for Atreus. Although his memory serves to remind him of how many could fit in such a vast tunnel, Loki's fearless to the reoccurring thought. Alert, he marches behind them, ready for anything they throw at him.

The travel through the pathways and hollow passages causes more tension in Atreus. The lights peering from the honeycomb-shaped holes around him flicker. Not from poor stability, but from the passing shadows of other Dark Elves on the other side. Their numbers uncountable, and their speed only adding difficulty to track them. Worse of all, every single one of them heads to the exact location he is heading. Escape might not be so simple now if the outcome isn't in his favor.

Eventually, Atreus finds himself within the heart of the hive. A chamber, enormous in size that a city could fit in it, built with channels and caves running through every corner of it like veins in a heart. The walls carry hundreds of Dark Elves. All of which bled their way from the holes and crevises into this exact location. Even from the glowing fungus bringing light to the cave, their forms remain obscure. Only their white eyes and dark silhouettes are visible. Adding the effect of stars glittering the cave. Atreus's presence becomes rapidly apparent to them, standing out like a light in the darkness.

Most remain clung to the walls, spying and watching Loki from afar. While others approach, crawling and creepily coming closer to him as he walks the path. Some hiss, click with their tongues and even growl at him while he passes. His beastly snarl proves mightier in response, forcing many of them to cower backward. Leading the rest to be less tempted to approach.

At last, Atreus reaches the heart of the hive. A stone arena resides at the furthest corner of the chamber. With a podium that holds a grand, stone throne. Behind it pulsates one of the pink, sacks of enchanted plant life. Which veils the Dark Elf king beneath its glimmering light. None of the lesser elves dare enter the platform. They hover outside or cling like insects to the walls and outskirts. Upon the higher-ranked warrior and Loki's arrival, the other elves clear way to them. Yet, just as they're about to pass, Atreus is briefly denied entry.

"Svartǫljánir has been expecting you," one of the elves claims, referring to the king. "Mind yourself, outsider!"

The subtle threat, while definitely something to be mindful of, Atreus behaves unthreatened by it. The moment his confidence loosens is the moment he exposes vulnerability. He must act hardened if he wishes to win them over to his side. Once his path is cleared, he marches headstrong into the arena. The leading elf from before already waits ahead for him. Kneeling down to his king, who has yet to act or even move.

"How dare you bring an outsider before me?" Svartǫljánir questions in a critical tone after slamming his fist.

His outburst makes all the elves within earshot flinch at his displeasure. The entirety of the chamber becomes devoid of talking and sound. Despite his aggression to Atreus's presence, the Last Son of Sparta continues forward. His firm heels carry him just to the feet of the king's staircase. The two stare each other down, neither one threatened by the other. The two mightiest powers there, filling the air with a body tensing pressure.

"My lord," the Dark Elf behind Atreus speaks. "This stranger proved prowess beyond anything the golden warriors could muster!"

The elf begins to ramble on, preaching to the rest of his nearby kin of what deeds Atreus performed.

"His arrows could summon birds of lightning, his bow, and blades, rain down and spew fire, and his form, shifting at his will. Matching that of the beasts that chase the sun and moon!"

Svartǫljánir remains unmoved by the claims and feats. His severe glare continues to peer into the pupils of Atreus, who also stands silent and still. A grunting growl slips the king's fanged mouth. Until finally, he rises, stepping out of his veil. Much like the previous king, he too wears a horned crown and dawns gold plated armor. His skin is less saturated and darker than the former ruler, discluding his wings, which has a dim red glow to them. The one distinguishable detail is his size. Even from Atreus's memory, Svartǫljánir exceeds his predecessor considerably.

"There was once another marked warrior who came to these lands years ago," the King recalls. "That outsider proved very troublesome, with the unrivaled savagery of a wild animal... Even dressed liked one..."

Atreus's glare intensifies, taking the insult to heart. His blood burns in an instant, pumping in his already rage-filled chest. His knuckles and fingers pop and crack from the hard clenching of his fists. Even so, his self-restraint keeps him at bay from lashing out.

"What is your name?" Svartǫljánir asks, looking down mockingly at him.

"Loki..." Atreus answers.

The sudden sound of chatter and concern fills the conversations of the swarm around them. Though what they say is difficult to comprehend, they all share a mutual rhythm. All on the same topic and roughly repeating the same words. Loki, God of Mischief, of Chaos, of War. Even in this realm, the infamous title has reached the corners of Alfheim.

"We've heard your name," Svartǫljánir mentions, amused by the revelation. "We know not from whence it came, but we received foretellings long ago of your coming... So, why have you come, little wolf?"

Atreus turns his back to the king, redirecting his focus to the crowd that swarms the arena. All watch in silence as he glares at each and everyone in the rafters.

"I'm here to build an army!" Atreus replies. "And I've come to recruit you into it!"

The mass of Dark Elves whispers and speak among themselves. Many are confused, finding the notion ridiculous, while few are fascinated at the idea.

"A tyrannical warlord named Odin seeks to conquer your world, and many others after it," Atreus claims. "He will send as many of his golden warriors as needed, to take what he believes is his!"

"We know of the clans' Aesir and Vanir," Svartǫljánir mentions. "We have encountered their kin before, even one of their number stood against us. Not knowing the depravity of the light!"

The Dark Elf king marches forward, each stomp of his heels shakes the elf that accompanied Atreus. Once more, the dark lord closes the distance between him and Loki. His condescending stare looms over, like a burning sun.

"So, why should we yield to you, and not the other way around?" Svartǫljánir asks in mockery.

The king's petty attempts at bravado have no effect on Atreus. Instead, they only fill him with delight and hubris. He smirks, unmoved by the king's intimidating approach.

"You know of the Aesir, then you must know about Baldur?" Atreus asks. Based on the sudden commotion among the Elves, his assumption is assured. "Baldur the unkillable, Baldur the Immortal, Baldur the Eternal Light! If so, then you must know that he is dead!" The increasing base of disarray in the army booms louder and louder, resonating to every corner of the cave system. Svartǫljánir's cocky stance fades with their united voices, turning his proud grin to an annoyed scowl.

"I'm the one that broke his curse, and caused his death!" Atreus boasts while stepping back. "I killed the unkillable!"

Awe, and astonished disbelief, fill the voices of the Dark Below. The denizens ramble, shout over one another, each one taken back by such a wild claim. For those unfamiliar with his capabilities reject the notion, while those who witnessed it first hand, become conflicted with it being truth or a lie.

"If you rally behind me, serve at my side, I will topple the armies of the Aesir, and bring down even the unstoppable Odin himself!" Atreus declares, shouting to the Dark Elves.

"Enough!" Svartǫljánir shouts to his people, silencing his legion in an instant.

Both he and Atreus lock gazes once more, this time with the tables turned. Loki smiles proudly, having caused a clear divide in the elves, with the king insulted.

"You're words have weight behind them," Svartǫljánir admits reluctantly. "But without action, such stories and boasts fall disproven, on any pair of ears."

The audience quells themselves as their lord speaks. Not even the flutter of their wings can be heard in the crowd.

"If you wish to earn our favor, you must prove your worth," Svartǫljánir says. "Two more of those gates remain. Shatter them, cast out these invaders along with their Aesir, and my people will consider your offer."

Even for Atreus, such a high price will not be paid with ease. Masses of Odin's warriors spread like a plague across Alfheim. Their numbers matching the Dark and Light Elves. Destroying one gate was wearisome, the other two will most likely be bolstered after the first bridge's destruction. Atreus has his limits, and such a drastic demand might overwhelm him if not careful. However, it will not be impossible.

Gaining the aid of the Light Elves might be vital to solving this issue. As well as the first step to forging peace between both sides. He's already earned the trust and interest of many from the dark side of the realm. This will be the most critical time, every decision from here will lead to either unity or the undoing of both elven races. Above all else, his heart must not waver to the challenges that lie ahead. Atreus, with his expression stern and confident, he gives his response.

"Then let the real war begin!" Atreus preaches.

(Authors Note)

Hello everyone, I hope you are enjoying the story thus far. My wishes go out to you all during these stressful times. I'd like to bring up a few things and apologize for a few errors in my storytelling.

For starters, the name for Odin's army. When I first started writing Atreus's Future, I couldn't find any given name for them, so I called them Asgardians, believing it would suffice. I'm still not sure if this would be correct, but even so, I decided to try and rectify this in this chapter if it was a naming mistake. By introducing my version of the Einherjar, who are the highest-ranking soldiers, discluding the other Aesir. In traditional Norse mythology, that is their given name, but I couldn't find this information until recently. Sorry for the confusion.

Second, the layout of Ivaldi's Maze. For those who've played the game repeatedly, you probably spotted this mistake a mile away. When I wrote the chapter, I hadn't played the game for some time, and my knowledge of how it looked slipped my mind. I should have played it through to get a clear picture. However, I won't be rewriting the chapter. The reason for this is because it would take away from the continuation of the story, and potentially lead to me scrapping the whole thing. Which would be less content for you all to read, and I don't want to take anything away from Atreus's story. Thankfully, given the lore of the maze, having it change its layout isn't too far fetched. For Ivaldi to keep his secrets away from Odin, the magic of the ruins altering its entire foundation is very likely.

A small side note, traditional Vikings didn't actually have horned helmets. I'm not sure where the notion came from, but as far as I know, this characteristic is false. However, I chose to include it with these versions of Valhalla's warriors to make them more menacing and intimidating. Of course, the horns are not very long nor made of gold. For me, I picture either small, dark bull horns or ram horns, with their faces covered by the nose piece, and maybe chain mail underneath.

Thank you all again for your continued support, I wish you all the best!

(Edit)

This story has recently reached 10,000 views! While I know some would say that views don't matter as much as visitors, it still fills me with pride that something of mine could reach such a high milestone. Thank you all so much for your support, and for reading my story, it means the world!


	13. Age of Mystery and Beauty

As Atreus departs from the coliseum, the war cries of the Dark Elves echo from all directions. Their internal fire and lust for battle fill the underground with their roars. Though not directed towards him, or with him, Atreus marches headstrong. Hellbent to tear down Odin's legacy, even if he has to do so alone. The Dark Elf king, Svartǫljánir, growls, distastefully behind his back. His anger, muffled by his people, who are now divided by his loyalty, and Loki's conquest. Unknowing of who he has insulted indirectly, the elven lord returns to his throne.

In Atreus's mind, a burning frustration cinders within. The insult towards his father weighs heavily and won't leave his thoughts. Even so, it doesn't compare to the burdens that already hinder his soul. He moves past his disdain for the Dark Elf leader. Loki needs to rally as many allies on his side if he wishes to rival the Aesir. Even if it means taking some back talk, his actions will soon put Svartǫljánir's insults to shame.

Even as he traverses the poorly dug out catacombs, many eyes prolongingly stare at him. Some glares of doubt and distaste, others more so curious and mildly threatened by his company in their home. Yet, it is the attention of those who attempt to subtly follow his tracks, far behind him that catch his attention. The one that lingers on his path is the same captain that lead him there, to begin with.

After much distance, he also finds that he's being lured to a specific location. Though he comes off as blindly following the ominous points and tilt of heads, he's in truth curious as to their intentions. It couldn't be an ambush, for the number of the Dark Elves lessens the further he follows their signals. Eventually, he is lead to a long-abandoned chamber. It doesn't match the architecture of the elves in the slightest. In fact, it feels all too familiar to Atreus. Standing within a stone carved chamber, he recognizes the workmanship of the Giants.

Runic carvings extend to each corner of the chamber, the stonework is smooth, and even statues of varying Jötnar stand and pose as though they're holding the room up. One such sculpture lures Atreus to it. His mother, Faye, carved in near-perfect detail, resides at the epicenter of the room. There's no mistaking it, especially with her axe in hand. He stares in tearful awe at it, bewildered that his mother's influence would reach even this realm. Even so, he chooses to lower his head, showing respect to his mother's legacy. At the feet of the monument, is another Jötnarshrine, much like the ones he found as a kid.

Opening it, more carvings and depictions lie within. At its center, a line of gold and white color shimmers. On each side, elven figures kneel and raise their hands in praise to it. The picture on the right cabinet door depicts the Jötnar, granting treasure and gifts to them. The other panel displays a rough visage of Odin and his Aesir, gazing down at the species they see as inferior.

"I had suspected it, but now I know it for certain," the Dark Elf who led him there comments. He cautiously approaches Atreus from behind, attempting to warrant his peaceful intentions. Several others march behind him but keep their distance. "You're one of them, the giants of frost. Only they ever bothered to learn our tongue, and much like you, many could change their form."

Atreus turns to him, both their eyes locked on the other. However, there's little to be concerned with, now that Loki understands their intentions. Even so, the rest of the elven force that trailed remain back. Their eyes dart between the two, almost expecting a confrontation.

"That's why you brought me here," Atreus determines. "You knew my heritage."

"I suspected, but wasn't sure until now," the Elf answers. "You're people came to us, built their temples, and left these shrines to guide and teach us."

"Teach you what?" Atreus questions, staring up at the statue of his mother.

"Uncertain, after many centuries, we could no longer decipher their writing. This place was lost for many ages, until a few years ago." The Dark Elf roams the chamber, running his hand across the workmanship of the Jötnar. His prolonging stare shows his fascination for their history.

Atreus, though far more inclosed with his curiosity, he too can't help but ponder the few remaining questions for his heritage. What happened to his people in Jötunheim? Why did his mother keep her lineage a secret from him and his father? To this day, those and many more oddities still linger.

"You seem to know much," Atreus comments. "What is your name?"

"My name is Bǫjnir, general of the dark clan," he replies. "And I must know now, can you help us?"

Taking a direct stand with one side will not help him. Atreus knows that if he professes his intentions to bridge peace, that he'll no longer have as strong of standing with the dark elves. He must be careful and only guide them towards that goal, or risk facing two armies in this realm.

"I will help," Atreus affirms. "But I must know for certain that I can depend on you as an ally."

"My immediate swarm is at your command," Bǫjnir agrees. "Though we are not many in number, most still following the King, we will aid in your battle. Only if you can prove yourself as mighty as you claim and prove your heritage."

"I'll assume you wish for me to translate the tablet in that case?"

Bǫjnir nods, along with his group of warriors backing him. They all stare curiously, almost anxious at what mysteries may be left behind by the giants. Atreus tilts his head, honoring their request. Taking out his old journal, Loki proceeds to read and write down the legend that is laid before him.

"At the beginning, Ymir's death birthed the light of Elfheim, bringing life to the newly born realm," he begins reading off. "During this primordial time, there was no light or dark, but all elves were equal, the exact same. They huddled around it, built their civilization around it, praised its radiance for millennia to come. In time, the giants came, offering their gifts and knowledge to your ancestors."

"What kind of gifts?" Bǫjnir asks.

"Magic, knowledge, and a way to utilize the light for the realms benefit," Atreus answers, scribbling notes at incredible speed. "The other picture is Odin, and the Aesir, envious of the light, desiring to take what doesn't belong to them."

Hearing the Allfather's name sickens the Elves in the room. Distaste and hate towards Odin are shared among them all as they spit and growl angrily at his mention.

"Even back then, these barbarians sought the light," Bǫjnir comments disapprovingly. "Why, though?"

"Most likely to use it as an exploit to subjugate your people," Atreus answers. " He's done similar tactics with others. He won't stop until everyone, and everything kneels to him and his tyrannical rule."

The severity of the implication rattles the elves within the room. They all glance to one another, ill confident towards facing such a menacing enemy. Discluding Bǫjnir, who only becomes enraged by his home being threatened. His trembling grip tightens as his hunger for battle builds like a mass flood within.

"It matters not what this Odin seeks!" He speaks out. "This Allfather will learn a harsh lesson on this day, that the elves are not to be looked down upon, but feared! The thousands of us within the shadows will descend upon him and his warriors! Our numbers will blot out the sun, and our shadow shall be cast over his army. In the darkness, his legion will fall!"

His soldiers become invigorated by his determined speech, they erupt into a war chant with spears and blades raised into the air. Atreus stands, confident that they will serve well on his mission to destroy the gates. Even so, they will need more numbers if they wish to do so. The Light must come into the fray, either by his encouragement or through the Asgardians.

"Then we must make preparations to dismantle the Bifrost bridges that they have constructed," Atreus states. "Gather all of your comrades and whatever you'll need, and rally where we first met."

"What will you do?" Bǫjnir questions.

"I need to pay some people a visit, do you know the quickest way to the temple where the light resides?"

The Dark Elves synch their fast nods, glancing at one another to make sure that they're all on the same page.

"We can show you the way," Bǫjnir answers. "But be warned, that is where many among the light clan reside. Not to mention one of the Bridges."

"I have nothing to fear of them," Atreus boldly states. "As for the gate, I will deal with that one on my own."

Truthfully, Atreus will rally the light to aid him in the raid, but will not admit it. His assured confidence brushes away there worry. Bǫjnir, with a nod, steps to the side of him. His hand lifts, to guide Atreus, along with the others who clear a path for him. As Loki makes his way out, the militia proceeds to follow him. Though their numbers are not the vastest, it is a start to his new army. In time, if all goes accordingly, the entirety of Alfheim will be at his command. Now comes the next challenging step, conjoining the two clans to one side.

Time passes, and Atreus emerges from a tunnel far from the path of any prying eyes. Determined, he presses forward, brushing off the debris and dirt from his attire. To his surprise, all seems far too calm. No sounds of clashing steel, roars, and cries, no sound reaches out to him from the realm. Cautious, he traverses the land in front of him patiently. The vitality of the tree brush, luscious plains, and fields coming into view, brings him some comfort. A far more pleasant sight, in comparison to the land of the Dark Elves. Even so, the sightseeing would have to wait.

Coming into view of a crystal bright shore, Atreus spots an abandoned rowboat, much like the ones he and his father rode. The streams and tunnels may be the stealthiest route, with the skies too risky to fly through in his bird form. Though old, the raft should be able to hold up in the water. Pushing it into the water, he leaps onto it, taking the paddle in hand. This time, he's the one charting the course, choosing where to go.

Nostalgia fills his heart as he allows the river to carry him. Atreus still holds the fond moments of him, his father, and Mimir while they were out in the open water. Though he smiles, grateful for the brief breaks of serenity and laughs, it's swiftly counteracted. It all feels so long ago to him, barely a memory, but instead, dreamlike. As though it's not himself that sat in that boat, but instead a "boy" that is long gone. They have been buried by his years of harsh training in combat and delving into his giant heritage. Amidst his thoughts, one such familiarity calls out to him.

"Atreus," a female voice echoes.

He passes discerning glances at different corners of the luminescent cave. His mind now focused on deciphering if the voice is real, or a fragment of his past haunting him.

"Atreus," the maiden calls again, calm, alluring, and lustful.

With no one to be seen, it's evident to Atreus that the voice is a figment. He looks forward, attempting to block out the woman's longing voice in his conscious. Yet, her gentle and sensual tone places him in a blinded trance. The vivid memory of heated flesh pressed and held against him, weakens his grasp of reality. It tires him, wearies his hold on the world around him. Euphoria eases his stress, and for a time, grants him bliss among his dark thoughts. Only for it to snap him back when his purpose is reemerged.

"Loki!" The woman shouts!

At last, now brought back to the war stained reality of Alfheim, he leaves the dimly lit tunnel. The temple of the light beacons like a lone star in the night sky. The heavens still gradually shift in color and shades while all three sides strive for dominance of the light. However, one other peculiar detail is now visible. An enchanted barrier of pure light envelops around the entirety of the structure. Even as fiery boulders crash and shatter atop it, the Valhallians forces make no impact on it. Far off, North West into the shores beyond the lake is where the barrage hails from. Which is where the second gate lies.

Atreus rows with haste in that direction. Hopefully, there's still time before word gets to the war encampment about the other Bifrost bridge. Currently, no mass of soldiers can be seen, which means their numbers might not have been expanded yet. Rushing onto the white sanded beach, Atreus sprints off the shore and into the woods. While navigating the vibrant and luscious landscape, he comes across a light elf temple. This structure, along with others in the distance, has also manifested walls of light, to prevent Odin's forces from desecrating the sacred lands. The crystals atop them, are the source of this magic. The calm voices in his head guide him to enter.

Cautious with his entrance, he lowers himself, remaining unarmed to assure those within of his peaceful intentions. The Light Elves, majestic, glistening, and a marvel to gaze upon, still fascinate him. Yet, just like all those years ago, they pay no mind to him. Restful as an undisturbed pond, they etch magical runes into the foundation. Even when grazing past him, they pay no attention to his existence in the room.

"Hello," Atreus says in confusion.

Still, even his verbal call makes no difference to them. They float by him, as though he isn't even there.

"Excuse me," he tries against, uncertain why they're behaving like this.

War is upon them, and even this doesn't deter them from their own tasks. Atreus becomes impatient, but still determined to prevent causing hostility.

"Maybe they can't understand me?" He asks himself. This time, he attempts to speak to them in an elven tongue. "Can you understand me?" He asks, incidentally mimicking the tones and pitches of the dark clan.

His subtle question causes alarm in the Light Elves, they all screech in panic. Enough so to hurt his ears, he clenches his head from the sudden shriek. Urgently, and fearful, the Light Elves soar out of the chamber, with their howls echoing.

"Wait!" He calls out, extending his hand in their direction.

It matters not what he does now, they are long gone. Atreus, realizing the error of his action, buries his face into his palms. A groan of irritation is muffled by his hands, along with the drawn out sight that follows.

"Why did I think that was a good idea?" He asks, shaking his covered face. "If my words won't get through to them, maybe my actions will."

With no other denizens near, he moves on. Lowering himself to the ground, his body is consumed by Cyan, Jotnar energy, changing his form. Now in the shape of a silver hawk, still bearing his bodily mark. He takes flight, but now has the leaves, and trees to use as cover to hide and shield his vulnerable form. Even after traveling yards and perhaps a mile out, there's still no Asgardian's in sight. All seems suddenly too quiet until a havoc filled opening presents itself to Atreus.

Much like the other encampment, the landscape is torn apart to make room for the structure and camp. Sand and ash layers the ground, and war chants fill the smoke-filled air. For now, the numbers seem even with that of the previous base that he destroyed. However, there's a nick in the air, something off considering how defensive this base is. Atreus lands himself as far into the area as he can. On the ground, with no intrusive eyes, he returns to the form of a serpent. His body blends with the field, making him near invisible as he slithers to the heart of the encampment.

What he finds at the center, causes a stir in his confidence. One of the Aesir, Thrud, stands, with soldiers surrounding and kneeling to her. Her expression is a blend of concern, agitation towards those around her. Stopping just close enough to hear, Atreus plants himself off to the side so that none can see him nor accidentally step on him.

"What do you mean, we lost one of the bridges?" Thrud questions, aggravated.

"My lady," one of them speaks up, groveling closer to him. "The vile insects of the realm were able to infiltrate our encampment."

"How is that possible, you had an army surrounding it from the skies and on the ground!"

Her anger inflicts terror into the men, who dwarf her in size. Even as a child, she can bring down the most stoic and battle-hardened with just her vulgar words. The men flinch at her angered spouting, and refuse to look at her directly for long.

"Our forces within the air were slaughtered by some unknown interference," another Valhallian speaks up. "A large number of our hippogriffs turned against us! Creating them an opening to attack us directly. It's chaos over there, now!"

As Thrud stares them all down, one of the warriors, in particular, stands out to her. This one-man, with damaged armor and broken weapons, shivers among the crowd. She approaches, the tip of her runic seax now directed beneath his chin. His breathing is unsteady, frantic at this indirect threat to his life.

"What do you have to fear?" She asks. "You are a champion of the Allfather, nothing should weigh on your valor!"

"M-my lady," the man attempts to speak. "I was there, and it was more than just elves..." All the warriors of Valhalla shake their heads, disbelieving in what he saw. "I witnessed a man that could turn into a wolf, I saw him tear through our troops like a blade through parchment."

While the rest of his comrades don't stand with him on his claim, he does make an emotional impact on Thrud. She pulls her blade away, brainstorming the mention and who he could be insinuating. Atreus coils his body, tense by his reputation spreading quicker than anticipated.

"The Wolf of Midgard," she states aloud. "Finally, a worthy challenge! Fortify the defenses, no one leaves, and no one enters this camp!"

"Yes, Goddess!" the Valhallians rise and raise their blades and hammers in praise.

A majority of the men around her immediately return to their duties. Arming themselves, they rush in different directions to prevent provoking her any further. While ill confident, some stay along with her. Before their eyes, they watch as her mighty wings burst from her shoulder blades.

"I will find and face this beast in single combat!" She decrees.

"You won't be aiding us here, my Goddess?" A Valhallian speaks.

"I am already under different orders from the Allfather, you're failure will not be mine!"

A single flap of her wings, and her body blasts into the sky. A gust of dirt and ash fill the air from her departure, choking those caught in the cloud. Even Atreus bundles his serpent body to block the flying sand. Transparent as the wind she soars, Thrud vanishes into the sky. With the warriors distracted by her exit, Atreus returns to his humanoid form. Still remaining obscure by a nearby structure.

"Good thing the Aesir aren't the brightest," Atreus comments, happy that she's leaving the fortress undefended. "Even so, these numbers are going to be a problem."

Atreus begins scanning the area for vulnerabilities, some kind of opening, or way to sabotage their formation. This camp is built near identical to the other, a bland design, but efficient with protection and positioning. However, with the news of the different base crumbling, defenses have been raised. For once, Asgard's armies are playing the defensive tactic. A few moments pass and Atreus spots a possible solution to spread chaos.

Barrels, filled with flammable oil and liquid, rest in different locations throughout the area. Used to either reduce the scenery to nothing or to ignite the boulders of the Valhallian's catapults. However, they shall also prove to be a viable tool for the Asgardian's defeat. Atreus smirks, devising a perfect plan to conquer this outpost and destroy their gate. His cocky grin fades, along with his body as he morphs back into a silver snake.

Slithering to every corner of the map, his scaley body reaches every available tub of oil. One by one, he reverts back to inflict clean, silent kills upon the guarding warriors. Snapping necks, puncturing spines, and lungs with his seax, and locking his arms around their throats to suffocate them. Several close calls of compromising are met, but even so, it doesn't impede his task. Each barrel is open and leaks through piercings in the woodwork he makes. The sand grain floor becomes stained with black grog, dark ale, and oils. The minutes fly by, as the urgency to spring his trap becomes crucial.

To his surprise, an unsuspecting issue arrises during his task. In the distance, soldiers yell and rally, like flies to a rotting corpse. Countless Valhallian's take arms as they rush to one of the corners of the outpost. Curiosity proves too much for Atreus to ignore. No longer in a scaley form, he creeps his way to their direction. From the enchanting forest, emerald streams and lights flicker and rush the defending soldiers. A swarm of transparent figures of green light charge along with the eye-catching display of energy. Though the warriors of Valhalla swing their blades at the apparitions, their attacks phase through the apparent illusions. Even so, their little understanding of magic blinds them with futile persistence.

"What the-" Atreus questions what is occurring.

As his mind wonders, a familiar trail of magic appears in his peripheral vision. Even in plain sight, this levitating energy is ignored by the oblivious Asgardians. Atreus chooses to follow it, holding off on his assault until he gets his answers. Several times, an enemy uncovers his presence, only to be silenced by his blade, or by his grip snapping their necks. Eventually, he discovers the end of the trail, as well as the maiden who left it.

The hooded woman from the forest of Midgard stands at the foot of the gate. Planting her bare feet to the ground and her arms trembling at her side, primal magics consume her tattooed arms. Mixed shades of green, yellow, and violet dance and bleed around her limbs. Invoking some hidden powers, the runes and marking on the gate, gradually flares and burns. The task appears to draw her entire focus to the ritual, leaving her unguarded.

As she concentrates on the spell, her position and actions lead to her discovery. A group of soldiers from the sides begins to rush her, ready to kill. Only for their lives to end swiftly by Atreus's arrows of light. Though the shot was unheard, the sudden death of her enemies alerts her to his company. Her eyes peek towards him, both of them have an expression of shock on their faces.

"You?" She questioningly recalls.

Though their reunion has a list of questions behind it, this meeting will have to wait. More Valhallians come to avenge their fallen comrades, their battle cries reaching them across the fields. Atreus and the maiden lock eyes with one another. She's panicked, unsure of her odds against such a combined militia.

"How much time do you need?" He questions.

His willingness to aid her without question stuns her even more. She shakes her head in disbelief, only to be reminded of the desperation of the situation. Although a majority of the army is still drawn to her illusion in the distance, the few that are coming will be a danger to face alone.

"I need a few minutes!" She answers reluctantly.

"Than I'll buy you as much as I can!" He states, arming himself with the Blades of Chaos.

Twirling them from their chains in circles on both sides of him, intense heat builds in the shackles. Riding up the links, until Azure blue flames combust and spin violently with the twin swords. For the first time, even his blue brand gifted to him by his father emits a light glow. The girl glances in awe at the powers he displays. Yet quickly returns her focus to dispelling the gateway.

As many Asgardians come into range, their hesitance at seeing the blades halts them. Leaving them open to Atreus's first, long reached strikes. He cleaves through their armor and flesh with his searing armaments. Fire and sparks spit and fly in all directions with each collision of different metals, and stone. Unlike his father, who relied on brute strength to overcome his foes, Atreus utilizes precision and agility with his swings. Though both tactics and techniques are the same, the elements of executing them are vastly different.

The chains spin, enwrap his limbs, and dance around Atreus as he spins, swings, and strikes with fluid motion. No matter how his enemies approach him, his wild flames and razor teethed, swords form a near-impenetrable, dazzling barrier around him. From one path, the enemy cannot reach, but some proceed to invade from the other sides. With a single motion, Atreus sheaths his father's armaments. Swerving his body in both directions, his bow and arrows are already in his grasp.

"Þruma Úlfur!" He shouts.

From his electrified arrows, visages of static wolf spirits spawn. Storming towards one of the groups, the pack of elemental canines crash atop the group. Their bodies spark and shock from the crash, paralyzing them in place. Atreus, following this, launches several shots of lightning at the other approaching party of Asgardian's. They, too, are brought to their knees by the electric barrage. Both sides are left open for an onslaught, as Atreus draws his seax.

With three mobs of troops on different sides of him, Loki steps back, close to the blonde maiden. With his runic sword, he invokes one of the runes before throwing it to the right side. The blade violently spins, forming a small static twister that envelops it. From one side, swerving to the next, the vortex blows away the Valhallians that stand close to them. Their bodies fly across the camp, and off the stone platform that Atreus and the girl stand on.

As time passes, most of the runes on the gate have been drained of power. The image of the golden walled, city of Asgard shimmers and warps. Only moments away from the gateway standing no more, and the girl's illusion dissipates. With nothing to stall them, the soldiers are immediately drawn to the chaos that Atreus unleashes. Their war chants and screams alert him to their impending arrival.

Atreus's persistence dwindles at the thought of facing such numerable odds. Though the flammable barrels have spilled across the camp, he cannot ignite them without risking getting caught in the chain of blasts. Along with the girl behind him. The only solution that comes to mind is retreating. However, he may not have another chance as smooth as this to conquer this fort. As the countless Valhallians rush to the gate, the girl raises her head to the sky.

Thaumaturgy booms in her voice, as she projects an unfamiliar language to the heavens. Though Atreus has never heard it spoken before, he can understand the meaning behind her shout. A plea for aid reflects across the plains, shaking him from the startling quake of her voice. For a moment, the warriors yield at the rumble, questioning what incantation she has cast. Their concerns are quickly answered, as the forest behind them waves and gusts furiously.

Like a swarm of fireflies, the Light Elves flash, and fly from the woods. Their swift, elegant, yet sporadic flight patters distract and cause panic in the army. Along with their dazzling display of lights, they utilize an array of magic against the Asgardians. Tendrils of light sprout from the ground to ensnare, trap and slow down their march. Though it doesn't impede them all, it does work to Atreus's advantage.

The Last Son of Sparta is speechless at what the light clan is capable of. More importantly, how and why they came to their aid.

"You can speak to them?" He asks the Sorceress.

"They'll help us, but not for long," she responds.

"Gotcha!" Without even looking away, Atreus blindly stabs the chest of a sneaking Asgardian.

The warrior's death is instant, prompting Loki to continue keeping the enemies at bay. His arrows fly, sending fire, light, and lightning to decimate the straggling numbers that approach. When close, his Blades of Chaos cleave through their ranks. Although he has been inflicted with several wounds during this battle, he overcomes the odds overall. Finally, the last of the energy from the bridge is depleted. The structure no longer maintained by the spells carved into it, the gate cracks and gradually crumbles under its weight.

Doing all they can, the Light Elves begin to vacate the base. Before doing so, two of them swoop down to take the Sorceress away. Like before, they ignore Atreus, bypassing his existence.

"Wait, what about him?" She pleads, only for her request to fall on deaf ears.

"Don't worry about me, I still have a job to do!" He claims, passing a nod.

The maiden watches helplessly as he's left behind, with the remaining army rushing at him. The Elves' daring escape goes exquisitely, without any casualties. Atreus, cheerful at this, turns to face the countless amount of enemies. With the Bifrost gate crumbling behind him, a cloud of dirt and dust obscures Loki.

The army holds the line, spears lunged forward, shields held up. The men already certain that Atreus is unharmed, form a defensive perimeter to keep him at bay. From the brown cloud of fumes, all that is seen is glowing, searing chains that spin steadily. Blue flames alight, sparking the stone ground as steel and rock clash. Emitting a dim light, as well, is Atreus's spartan brand and Norse tattoos on his right arm ad torso.

His menacing, slow approach causes immediate tension among their ranks. Some of the soldiers tremble uncontrollably, most break into cold sweats. Chatter among the crowd whispers in the eerie winds. Even so, Atreus knows the possibility of victory in this fight will be near impossible, not to be gambled with. Instead, he returns to his previous plan but must be far enough to take his shot.

Taking the initiative, Loki dashes towards the front lines. A brief reaction of fear flinches the spear and shield-wielding Asgardians. Only for their defenses to prove futile, as Atreus flings, his scorching blades upward. The single tall tower in the fortress allows him to latch his armaments into its foundation. With one hard pull, he launches himself into the air. As he swings himself over them, he takes up his bow.

"Bruni Kráka!" Atreus shouts, unleashing a blazing arrow.

The shot soars directly down, as Atreus slips passed them. Just as he's about to land, Cyan energy consumes his body. Once more, he changes into a silver hawk while the army is distracted. As for the bolt, right before impacting the floor, a burst of flame from it produces a murderous flock of raging crows. All of which soar into alternate directions. For a moment, the warriors all collectively sigh at the avoided attack. Not knowing of the spots, the flaming birds will crash.

As Atreus narrowly escapes the encampment, the girl and the elves watch from the jungle's edge. They watch as explosions and wild, devastating flames engulf the large base in a matter of seconds. Before their eyes, the elves' most troublesome enemy has been decimated. Not long after, a single shiny grey bird darts toward them. Just as it lands, a flash of light reverts Atreus back into his original form. He crashed into the ground, sending a gust of wind and dirt in all directions.

"Do I have your attention now?" Atreus questions the Elves, while he rises up.

Now fascinated by him, as though he's some form of exotic animal, the Light Elves flicker close to him. Their hands press and rub his body and armor, even stroking his fur vest as though believing it's apart of him. He pays no ill mind to their intrusive behavior, only watching them cautiously. As he observes them, the Sorceress approaches in awe by his actions.

"How-what-who," no single question satisfies her curiosity.

He looks to her, just as mind boggled towards her as she is to him. He steps closer to her, brushing off the Elves, who stay within a few feet of him

"I was just about to ask the same thing," he jokingly replies.

Before he can continue, she presses her soft hands on his bare chest. For once, he's taken aback by the direct, yet subtle contact. She caresses him, running her fingers on his biceps and pectorals as though studying him. Unconsciously, he tenses the muscles on every part of his body, confused and uncertain of her intentions. At last, while her hands travel to his face, does she look him in his silver-blue eyes. Her face instantly becomes red, while jerking her hands away and creating a small gap between them.

"You're not mortal," she says intrigued. "I've never sensed anything like you before, but there's no mistaking it."

"That's putting it mildly," he replies, shaking off his warm feeling and thoughts. "What I am is complicated."

"I can detect as much... I-I have so many questions..."

Just as she begins stepping away, Atreus raises his hand to calm her. He stays in place, preventing himself from giving her anything to worry about from him. Though anxious, his subtle gesture does provide some ease.

"I assure you, I mean you no harm," he tells her.

"I figured," she sighs in content. "I can't thank you enough for your help... Who are you?"

In any other case, Atreus would introduce himself as Loki to prevent anyone from knowing his true identity. As well as spread his infamous title to spread fear to his enemies. However, something about this blonde, enchanting woman discourages his intention to do so. Never has he been so fascinated with someone of this nature, of this girl's caliber and capabilities.

"I'm Atreus," he tells her.

As their conversation continues, the Light Elves proceed to gradually head back to the temple. The denizens of the realm silently gesture for them to follow. With the sounds of the elves whispers guiding them like a soothing song, she blindly trails behind. Atreus, dazed and drawn to her beauty, is briefly entranced by her. After snapping himself back, he follows behind, walking faster to keep up. She stops, waiting patiently for him to catch up. The moment he does, the too stand face to face. Even with the dire situation on all ends, this moment provides them both much-needed peace.

"What is your name?" He asks.

"Sigyn," she answers.


	14. Secret in the Light

With the second fortification of Odin's army reduced to rubble, Atreus and Sigyn make their way back to the Elven temple. Alfheim has never felt so serene in the time that Loki's been here. The soothing melodies of the Light Elves conceal his thoughts from the dangers of Asgard. The sorceress, Sigyn, also adds to the peaceful atmosphere of this brief lapse of time.

Though powerful, her mindset is naturally gentle. She proves to be a fascinating person, unlike anyone he's ever met before. Sigyn's enchanting presence, alluring mystery, and her power with words and action, all tether Atreus's attention to her. Unconsciously, he maintains a close distance to her side, almost protective of her despite her evident ability to fight back. Over and over, he corrects this mistake, to prevent causing her any ill thoughts toward him. For the most part, she's oblivious to his behavior. Sigyn's focus remains directed in conversation with the Elves that guide them.

"Strange," Atreus comments. "How is it that you're able to speak to them?"

"I know many languages," she answers. "The Elves' native tongue is unique. Although it's structured the same, the difference in tone, slurs, and pronunciation makes a significant difference. One wrong noise, and you'll speak like the dark, or like the light."

"I see... So that's why they fled when I spoke to them."

Beneath the trees of the harmonious woods, Atreus and Sigyn continue their conversation. They pass through thick bushes, branches, and fallen over, dead oaks. Taking the polite initiative, he offers a hand to her. Soft with his grasp around her fingertips, he leads her across the cluttered environment. Though his aid was unneeded, courtesy was a trait his mother always taught him to uphold.

"Now for one of my questions," Sigyn adds on. "Why are you here in Alfheim? More importantly, why would you defy the Allfather, alone?"

The hesitance to speak of his goals leaves him silent. Even though Sigyn has been proven to be trustworthy, to spill everything to her might be overwhelming. Still, the sorceress is patient for an answer as they continue to maneuver the jungles of Alfheim.

"Odin and I have a history," Atreus ominously states.

"You've met the Allfather?" She questions in awe.

"Not face to face, but his legacy has left an impact on my life..."

Dwelling on the memories of his harsh life reignites Atreus's internal rage. His fist clenches, popping and cracking his knuckles, and his muscles harden to swell his veins. Though his expression is composed, his body speaks of his struggle.

"Odin has left his mark on all of us," Sigyn comments, grasping her cloth-wrapped arms. "Even if he didn't know it."

Her external pain thwarts away his own emotional conflict. His expression is of guilt when glancing down at her. Though he goes to reach for her shoulder to grant her ease, his resistance pulls him back.

"That's why I'm here, to weaken his hold on this realm, and all others... Why are you here?" Atreus speaks, soft in tone.

The question throws her deeper into discomfort. Her response is delayed as she clenches her arm tighter. Even her breathing becomes slower, along with her pace of speed.

"Ragnarok is upon us," Sigyn states grimly. "I thought that maybe if I came here, I would be safer."

The Twilight of the Gods mention sends unsettling shivers through Loki's skin. An itch beneath his flesh forces him to unconsciously stretch to relieve the tension in his body. Much time has passed since he's even thought about it. So many distractions in the realm of war and discord have directed his focus elsewhere.

"Is that also why you were closing the gate, to prevent Odin's forces from coming here?" Atreus asks.

"Among others..." She replies coldly.

"The Aesir who are following you."

Sigyn stands frozen in shock by Loki's accurate assumption. Her eyes are widened while she stares at him in disbelief. Blindly, he continues walking forward, his mind picturing the Aesir that he encountered. The Skill they displayed and the powers they possessed are still fresh in his memory.

"You know of them?" She asks, dread filling her eyes.

"Yes, and I'm afraid you're too late," he informs her. He, too, firmly plants his feet into the ground, allowing her to catch up. "Three of them have already entered Alfheim some time ago, way before you and I closed off their Bifrost."

"Which ones?" She asks in a panic, her hands grasping the white fur rims of his hide vest.

This harmless gesture of worry invokes concern in Atreus. His firm stance wavers by her desperation for answers.

"Thrud and Ullr, the son and daughter of Thor, and one that was blind..." Atreus answers, yet still questioning his own eyes. The stranger's unfathomable feat pries into Loki's thoughts like thorned branches. The inability to understand the circumstances only fuels his confusion towards the topic.

His eyes hone in on her emotionally distraught state, unsure of what he can do to settle her worries. A moment passes of the two gluing their focus on the other. All becomes silent, and their surroundings irrelevant to them. He warily wraps his fingers around her wrists. Gradually, her hold on him weakens, even though this news is even direr. Frantic, and in denial, Sigyn shakes her head vigorously.

"Höðr..." She states, terrified at the possibility.

"You know of him?" Atreus question. "Who is he?"

"One of the sons of Odin, an Aesir as vicious as the rest..." The more in-depth she describes this Vallhallian god, the more her anxiousness builds. Her breathing rate heightens, fingers begin to twitch and shake, and even her pupils tremble. "He's the most skilled archer among the Aesir, and perhaps in all of the nine realms!"

Atreus nods his head, seeing the Aesir's accuracy first hand. Facing off with him may prove one of the most challenging of his foes, but also a worthy chance to let loose his own proficiency.

"Odin and Thor just love casting away their children, don't they?" Atreus whispers distastefully, recalling Baldur, Magni, and Modi's fate. "Why is a Son of Odin hunting you?"

"The Allfather despises anyone unwilling to bend a knee to him," Sigyn answers, her tense physique gradually softening. "I refused to offer my services to his crusade, and so I fled from him. I've been on the run for days... When I first saw you, I was worried that you were one of Odin's warriors."

The memory of his mental break flashes back to him. The searing rage boiling in his veins, the blind fury clouding his vision, no wonder she would assume that. Even up to this moment, Atreus ponders what came over him back then. What presence infected his spirit so effortlessly, and still meddles with him even in Alfheim? First to antagonize his scar riddled mind, than to tease him with warm thoughts. Who is it that's reaching out to him?

"I don't blame you, it's hard to trust nowadays," he replies, all too familiar with betrayal. "But I assure you, if your enemies are the Aesir, than I will help you."

The air in Sigyn's lungs is stripped like a winter gust through her chest. Both awe and wonder tangle her thoughts, preventing her from speaking. Instead, she stares into his gentle, yet hollow, ash blue eyes. He, too, links his sight with her bright amber pupils. Gazing into them nearly resembles a warm, hearth fire, all the more diverting his focus.

"Why would you help me?" She asks.

"Because I need your help as well," he answers. "If we are to survive and be free, the enemies of the Allfather must stand together. You can speak to the Light Elves, and I can talk to the dark. If we want to stand against the remaining warriors of Valhalla, we must unite Alfheim's clans."

"But they've been at war for centuries, how can you and I break such a conflict?"

The scale of absurdity for his intentions does sound impossible, even to him, at times. However, the crucial need for the truce invokes desperation, no matter the odds and unlikely outcome. Atreus marches ahead, pushing aside branches and leaves of the forest, from the other side, radiance basques them in warmth. The temple of Light stands, it's glow remaining otherworldy. The glistening Elves float and soar around their sanctuary, dazzling the skies above.

"By unlocking the mystery behind it, and why it started to begin with," he answers.

Sigyn stands beside him, entranced by the marvel of the sacred city. The several occasions of viewing the shrine, during his childhood, have mildly numbed his sense of fascination. Instead, he looks to a new, beautiful sight. Once more, the two synchronize their eyes onto the other. The enveloping atmosphere around them is warm, from the rays of the towering beam, and from their hidden allure for the other.

"If you aid me, help me unite the realms, then I swear to you that I will return the favor," Atreus vows.

"Okay," she answers, nodding with bashful cheeks. "But what about Höðr, and the others?"

"I'm not concerned with them... Even gods can die, and I'll be sure to remind them of that..."

Disbelief and shock cloud her thinking, Sigyn, devoid of any rational response, watches as Atreus walks forward. Never had she met one not just fearless towards the gods, but openly ready to stand his ground against them. Determined, he blindly marches to the temple. His fists tightly clenched, the runes and markings on his arms emit a soft blue glow. Höðr and his ally Aesir wander the woods of Alfheim, lurking in the shadows. Unknowing that a new hunter has entered the fray. Which shall be the hunter, and which will be the prey?

"Who are you?" Sigyn asks, dumbfounded by his defiant courage against the gods.

"I'm just a man who's lost too much, to fail now," Atreus answers with a sigh, hellbent on his quest while moving forward.

Sigyn pauses in guilt, sensing only a sliver of the turmoil in Atreus's body, mind, and spirit. Uncertain what to make of it, nor unable to comprehend why it's there, she stands idle. A moment passes before Atreus notices her hesitance to follow. Glancing back to her, she urgently follows, drawn to him and the mystery behind him.

After treading a vast distance, Sigyn and Atreus arrive at the Elven sanctuary. For the moment, the ongoing war that infects the soils of Alfheim has yet to reach these sacred lands. The floating residences pay no mind to the foreign travelers beneath them. Graceful in their flight, the Elves are elegant yet swift with their motions. Atreus and Sigyn also move past them, directing their focus towards the temple itself.

"What are we looking for?" Sigyn asks, walking with haste to keep up.

"We need to find answers about the Elves past," he answers, scanning the sacred gardens and structures. "A shrine, a historical monument, anything that can teach us about their history."

"Wait, like those Jötunn shrines!" Sigyn, sparked by a revelation, latches her gentle fingers onto his arm.

"You know about those?" He asks, halted in shock by her knowledge of the giants.

"Beneath the temple, deep within the halls that the light doesn't touch. I saw it from a distance, but had no reason to look closer at it."

Atreus grins, proud of his luck to come across such a fascinating woman. A soft chuckle slips through his teeth, only producing confused looks from the sorceress. He rests his hand on hers, shaking them lightly, but with tempered excitement.

"Now we do," he replies cheerfully.

"You can read it?" She stunningly asks.

"That I can, please take me to it."

Sigyn nods, gently pulling at his bracer covered arm, she guides him. Without retaliation, he gives in to her intentions and is strung behind her whim. Though her sudden boost in speed catches him off guard, he manages to match her pace. With Odin's forces weakened, this opportunity to pursue knowledge may be his only chance.

* * *

Deep beneath the glamorous halls of the Light Elves kingdom, the ruins and chambers of an age that has long passed rests. Only a sliver of light makes the passage visible. The forgotten deceased of both Elven clans litter the floors and rooms of these decrepit halls. Sigyn shows disgust and repulsion towards the ancient carnage, but Atreus moves forward. Taking her hand, he lends whatever comfort and distraction from the appalling sights as he can.

"Keep your eyes forward, don't look down," he tells her to get her mind off the long-dead corpses.

She stays by him, only looking forward, wrapped by his arm, and held close. He's absent-minded to his unintentional contact, while she is warm from his embrace. Eventually, some structural aspects of the temple become familiar to the God of Mischief. The choice in runes, the smoothness of the stone foundation, and the destroyed statues signify one thing.

The lingering aspect and remnants of the giants reside here. The further they traverse the chambers, the more excitement builds in Atreus. He examines and studies the structures around him, the notes and runes left behind by his people, and the ancient statues that tower above them.

"We're close," he tells her.

"You seem to know a lot about the Jötnar," she comments.

"I've had a lot of time to study them," he says. For the moment, his heritage will be kept a secret from her. The fewer people that know who he is, the smoother his efforts will be. And the less Aesir he may have to deal with should news spread of his Jötunn bloodline.

"We're almost there," Sigyn states. "It should be just up ahead."

The sorceress rushes ahead, full of anticipation to know the giants' legends and history. On the other hand, Atreus finds himself thwarted and locked in place. A single step forward, and a body trembling migraine drops him to his knees. He grasps his skull and releases a growl and dry yells from his clenching canines. Sigyn immediately detects this disturbance and hurries back to his side.

Her words are negated by the booming voices and visions clashing in Loki's mind. A furious mix of battle cries, the sounds of metal colliding, screams of terror, and rage all ring and rumble in his thoughts. However, one distinct quote among the disarray stands out to him.

 _The hands of Death could not defeat me, the Sisters of Fate could not hold me. And you will not see the end of this day! I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE!_

"Father?" Atreus questions, recognizing the booming voice.

Suddenly, the commotion ceases, and Atreus grovels in the silence of the abandoned ruins. The mind-breaking headache gradually weakens, leaving the two in soundless confusion.

"Father?" Sigyn questions, while helping him back onto his feet.

"It's nothing," he says to her.

The light of Alfheim must be closer than he anticipated. The voices and echoes are always more powerful, the closer he is to the tower of celestial radiance. After an irritable shake of his head, Atreus rubs his scalp to relieve the throbbing pain that remains. Only for his efforts to be interrupted by Sigyn, who chooses to massage and treat his migraine herself.

"Are you alright?" She asks, coming close to him.

While this immediate contact alarms him, Loki stays in place, staring at her in wonder. Like a veteran healer, she checks and monitors every aspect of his scalp and face. During the exchange, she keeps locking her eyes onto his, before forcing herself to look elsewhere. Eventually, Atreus's hands tenderly grasp around her wrists, pulling her arms away.

"I'm fine," he says softly. "We should get moving."

She gives an accepting nod and lowers her arms back to her sides. Without objection, they continue down the tunnel. Still, the more Sigyn remains by him, the more questions about him add on. To her knowledge and wisdom, even she can tell that their's more to him than he's letting off. Still, only time will present an appropriate chance to question him.

Finally, the two enter the remains of a millennia-old shrine. More statues of varying shapes and sizes occupy every corner of the chamber. This time, to Atreus's dissatisfaction, does not contain a monument dedicated to his mother. However, it does hold the tablet that they have been seeking. Rushing forward, Loki interacts with the memorial. Sigyn eagerly follows, standing beside him as he opens the shrine.

The pictures displayed portray a far grimmer image than the one before. At the center, the same light stands, but this time, with an ensuing war surrounding it. Instead of raiding the realm, Odin is presenting a gift to the Elves. Who abuse the magic of Alfheims celestial beacon, stripping it from others in their race. Enslaving and creating the first generation of Dark Elves, who are then placed in chains and armed for battle. Inevitably sparking the eternal conflict between the two factions.

"By the gods," Atreus shakes his head in disbelief.

"What does it say?" Sigyn asks.

"Odin started it all, the war, everything..." Atreus begins furiously taking notes. "Instead of expending his own armies to conquer the realm, he created a divide between the two factions. Initially, there was only one clan of Elves, but the Allfather taught them how to use the beacon's power for other purposes. Eventually, the light abused this knowledge for their own gain. They created the Dark Elves to use as slaves... They've been at war ever since."

"That's horrible..." Sigyn shakes her head, yet accepts the level of cunning from the Allfather.

Atreus stands silent, sealing his journal and putting it away. He also finds the story believable, all the more fueling hatred towards the Aesir and their bloodthirsty savagery. But now even toward the denizens of light, who he thought were noble and pure. Only to find them to be just as ruthless as the dark.

"But now we know the truth," he states. "Now, we can end this war, once and for all..."

"How?" Sigyn asks.

Loki and Sigyn gaze at one another, although his words come from confidence, his expression displays uncertainty. A sigh breezes from his nostrils, thinking hard on what must be done next. However, their moment of peace is abruptly ended by an earth rumbling bang. Enough so that the room around them begins to crack and crumble at the tremor. Urgently, Atreus lifts Sigyn and bolts out of the enclosed shrine, surprising the sorceress.

"What's happening?" She questions, frantically looking in all directions.

"I'm not sure," he states, doing the same. "But I'm going to find out."

After placing her back on the flat earth, the two hurry their way out of the ruins. The temple around them crashes and crumbles around them. Debris, clouds of dust, and falling decor surround them. Still, with magic and athletic prowess between them, the calamity around them proves avoidable. Yet, all the more tragic, as once more, a fragment of Atreus's lineage comes crashing down. Regardless, he rushes forward with Sigyn beside him, leaving his heritage behind for what the future brings.


	15. Clash of Shadow and Flame

Eventually, Sigyn and Atreus reach the surface. Emerging from a spiral, bleak tunnel, they step into the world of discord. Before their eyes, an ensuing slaughter unfolds across the fields of serenity. The Dark Elves, despite Atreus's request, have begun laying siege to the temple. They bombard the sanctum from the skies, and from the ground. The Light Elves flee, relying on their magics to stall and slow down the invaders. Sadly, not all can escape the battlefield.

"This wasn't supposed to happen!" Atreus claims furiously.

"Why are they attacking now?" Sigyn asks.

"I don't-"

An odd sense sparks in Atreus's mind. Among the chaos and spilling of blood, something is wrong. A presence, familiar, strange, and deadly, watches them from afar. He's felt this cold stare before. It was unexpected, scary accurate, and nearly pierced him with an enchanted shot. With only a moment to act, Atreus activates a shield of Trolls Bane, and barricades a lightning-fast arrow. The razor-sharp tip of a bolt clashes with his stalwart, right before it could make contact with Sigyn.

The sorceress, now held tight in Atreus's embrace, stares in shock over the quick series of events. Her gaze quickly turns to fear the moment she spots who fired the arrow. From the tallest structure in the vicinity, the Son of Odin, Höðr, descends upon them. Dropping from a tower off in the distance, his heels crash and shatter the marble floor beneath him. Even without his sight, he manages to walk gracefully toward them.

"Lady Sigyn!" he calls out, the tip of his spear grinding and sparking on the pavement as he approaches. "You had us all very worried about you. Our dear Allfather and my brother, above all..."

Sigyn, unconsciously, grasps the same sashed arm from earlier. Her head shakes, and even her eyes water at the sight of the Aesir. Atreus, firmly standing himself by her side, bracing himself for an impending battle. For extra precaution, keeps his arm in her path, in case he needs to divert another shot.

"Come along now, it's time to go home," Höðr firmly states. The Aesir swings his short-handled spear, flinging wild sparks in their direction. "Don't make me have to hurt you."

Though the Aesir's words weaken Sigyn with fear, already wavering her ill confidence, Atreus, is unfazed. Taking a single glance back, her timid expression is painted on his mind. All too well does he know how she feels, recalling his days as a child, terrified of the Aesir. Seeing that look on her eyes invokes rage in him, that someone else has to endure the same.

Though careless and unwise, he places himself between her and the Son of Odin, becoming her shield to grant her relief and assurance. Stomping his feet on the pavement, angrily, he takes up a firm stance in front of her. His presence is bluntly made aware to the now curious God of Darkness, who directs his face in the location of the rumble. Even with Alfheim in chaos, Sigyn shows more concern toward the two immortal men facing off.

"I don't know what Odin desires from her, nor the God of Thunder," Atreus states sternly. "But if you don't leave here now, you won't be leaving alive!"

Atreus's hate-filled confidence towards the Aesir renders Sigyn silent, who watches skeptically uncertain of what's about to transpire. A sliver of her wishes to intervene, but another dwindles her courage to step forward. Höðr finds amusement in Loki's defiance, a light chuckle escapes his throat at the threat.

"What do we have here?" He asks, scratching his stubbly chin. "A boy pretending to be a man?"

The Aesir lets out another soft laugh. All the more, Sigyn's wary grows as she helplessly watches. Atreus, with knuckles clenched, scowls at the haughty God of Asgard. He, too, remains firm, headstrong, and ready for what his enemy to act. Though the Aesir's expression is partially concealed by his sash, his facial shift is apparent as day. Höðr ceases his mocking chuckle and turns his face to Loki's position.

"You're the one from earlier, aren't you?" He asks, referring to their first interaction. "It's not very often I miss my targets, but then again, I thought my warning shot was enough to make you flee... I guess you're too foolish to know when you're outmatched."

Höðr's insults have no effect on the enraged Wolf of Midgard, who only stands his ground in heated anticipation.

"Stand aside, mortal," the Aesir commands, waving his spear. "You meddle in the affairs of Asgard!"

"All the more reason to stand against you," Atreus spouts, now slamming his feet while steadily walking to him.

The more defiant he is to the Aesir, the more Höðr becomes amused by the retaliation. Little by little, the two immortal warriors step closer and closer, the tension in the air becomes thick and frigid. The flames of the war around them are numb and obsolete in comparison to this staredown.

"You don't want this fight, boy," Höðr warns, tightening his hold on his spear.

The gap between them has been diminished almost completely. A foot or more of space separates them from landing the first strike on the other. The Aesir is amused by the sturring conflict, his grin condescends Loki's disobedience. Atreus, however, is motivated by an urge that he hasn't felt in many years. A yearning to prove himself, like he once sought when he fought beside his father. For the first time, on his own, he challenges a god face to face.

"I think I do," Atreus replies, his dormant rage expelling immense heat from his flexing arms. A sliver of his spartan heritage fuels his anger.

Even with the sash over Höðr's eyes, Atreus can sense the glare behind the gold veil. Silence envelops them, not a word, a whisper, or even a sigh emits from their throats. The temple crumbles in chaos, death, and ash fills the air, and their focus is solely driven towards the other. Even Sigyn is now obscured to them, who's gradually stepping away from them. Her hands tremble with flickering energy glimmering from her fingers. An urge to help lingers, but fear restrains her incentive.

Finally, a scuff of intrigue escapes from Höðr's grinning lips. For a brief second, the Aesir turns himself away from Atreus. Only to make the first attack with a swift lunge with his spear. Sparks and ringing of steel fly in all directions as Loki counters the strike with his bracers. Following after, are hurling fists, and side slashes between the two. The moment their battle begins, the surrounding Dark Elves cease their assault, realizing who shares the battlefield with them. The remaining Light Elves flee, caring little for the confrontation.

Inhumanly swift, and powerful with each strike, the immortal warriors relentlessly unleash a flurry of swings and blows against the either. Both of which are unable to land a critical hit on the other, and are merely able to block or avert the attacks. Höðr's persistent jabs and lunges prevent Atreus from drawing out any of his weapons. Trolls Bane alone must block and counterstrike the Aesir's assaults. An expression of fierce shock freezes on his face, never has he faced a foe like this singlehandedly. Eventually, with a full swerving swing, Höðr overcomes Atreus's defenses, blowing him back and through the air.

Even with the fortification of Trolls Bane absorbing a majority of the impact, the strike reminds him of the attack he endured from Baldur. With only a second to land back on solid earth and to recatch his breath, Höðr proves merciless while charging him. Once more, a barrage of punches, blocks, and slashes are exchanged between them, putting Atreus's reflexes to the ultimate trial. Again, the Aesir builds up another massive swing. This time, the Last Son of Sparta is prepared. Absorbing the force behind the strike, he redirects it back against him with both of his clenched fists.

Although Höðr also manages to shield himself with the handle of his pike, he too is thrown a vast distance back. Even when driving his golden spear into the marble floor beneath him, he's dragged several feet away from the strength of his own hit. Knelt on the cracked gravel, he raises his head up to the Wolf of Midgard. The Aesir's face turns to enticed shock at the skills his enemy presents, while Atreus is stern, bitter towards him. A few motions of his hands, wrists, and arms, and every joint in Loki's limbs cracks and pops.

"I don't believe it," Sigyn comments in near denial of what unfolded.

The sorceress knew that Atreus was more than an ordinary mortal. Yet, the events that have just unfolded leave her in disbelief. Even with his words towards the Aesir before, she was unsure about his full capabilities. However, he has proven the impossible to her, in her time of need. Never before has she seen a man like him, who could rival a god.

"Well then," Höðr comments, baffled while tearing his pike from the ground. "I underestimated you..."

"And that mistake will cost you your life!" Atreus states.

"We shall see..."

In synch, the Aesir and Loki charge at the other with high speed. Höðr brings down his spear, the shining gold of his weapon glows as he does so. Instinctively, Atreus catches it with one hand, the force behind the hit sending a wild gust of wind in all directions. The Son of Odin follows this assault by thrusting the blunt end of his pike. Once more, Atreus latches onto it to intercept the strike. Now the two immortals vie for dominance over the godly armament. Stuck in a stalemate of raw strength, the ground beneath them begins to crack and divide.

The already weakened floor and structure, that they stand upon begins to falter and collapse. The heels of these warriors are gradually dug deeper, into the marble platform that they stand upon. Neither one can overcome the other, resulting in a standstill as the battlefield breaks under their divine prowess. Growls and groans pry from their jaws as they angrily remain firm and stalwart. Eventually, the floor between them becomes too unstable to maintain their hold. In one swift motion, Atreus yanks the Aesir toward him, then with a tackle, sends them both plummeting to the underground catacombs.

"Atreus!" Sigyn calls out, rushing towards them. Just as she reaches the crater's edge, Höðr and Atreus have vanished into the shadowy abyss.

The two crash and tumble onto a different level of the sacred temple, both obscured by a thin blanket of darkness. The Blades of Chaos burn blue in Atreus's grasp, searing the floor that they're impaled into while he rests on one knee. Höðr, just a few meters away, also brings himself back onto his feet. Dark smoke and shadows bleed from his dimly glowing, misty blue runes on his body and armaments. Even beneath the sash that conceals his eyes, a transparent glow from his pupils pierces through the cloth.

"Let the hunt begin!" The Aesir states, twirling his spear.

Atreus, springing himself onto his feet, rushes the Son of Odin. A single whip of his arms and the Blades of Chaos extend and seek out the Aesir. The chains burning red, and the azure flames soaring like fireballs through the air. However, even without his sight, Höðr can detect where the bladed armaments are coming from. Perfectly connecting the sharp end of his spear with the blades, he redirects and smacks them away. Utilizing the enchanted links of his father's short swords, Atreus continues to unleash a flurry of long-distance slashes.

Fire, shadow, and metal dance and flails in all directions around them during their battle. Flashes from the grinding metal flicker the room and add a golden hue to the other enchanted colors. With the blind god juggling and twirling his pike, Höðr prevents any of the fiery blades from making contact with him. Little by little, the Aesir gradually shortens the gap between them, with Atreus too blinded by the heat of battle to realize it. Eventually, Loki flings his twin swords for a more accurate strike at the god's chest, granting Höðr an opening.

Although he endured scrapes by the attack, the Aesir spins his pike once more, entangling the chains around his handle. With Atreus bound by his wrists and by the spear, Höðr yanks him forward to him. Loki flung through the air, receives a direct blow to the gut with the blunt end of the Aesir's pike. Immediately following, he is hurled and slammed onto the marble pavement, cracking the ground and throwing him to the side.

"Mistaking my blindness as a weakness, foolish boy," Höðr comments in mocking amusement. "I'm not as impaired as you'd believe, your movements are predictable!"

Calling back the blades, Atreus lifts himself off the broken pavement. Keeping his distance, he begins forming a quick strategy, treating this initially believed impaired foe like any other, a deadly threat. Twirling the chains, he reignites and builds up the hellish flames on Ares' twin weapons, forming spiraling, fiery lights around him. Once more, he hurls them in the same location.

The Aesir grins, humored over the repeated attempt. Again, he catches the chains around the hilt of his pike and yanks Loki to him. However, this time, he aims the pointed end at him, intending to plunge his godly weapon into his gut. Yet, unsuspectingly, his attempts are thwarted. When close in range, Atreus backhands the spear with one of the shields of Trolls Bane. Following the aversion, he lands a direction, spiked gauntlet punch to Höðr's face. Now within arms reach and past the god's defenses, he hurls both of his fists at the Son of Odin's abdomen, throwing him backward.

"Clever," Höðr mutters, crouched down while wiping the blood from the slashes across his face.

Not even willing to reply, or talk down to his enemy, Atreus hurls his blades onto the ground. A wave of wild, blue flames scorches and flares toward the Aesir. Even after his recently inflicted wounds and received injuries, the God of Darkness retaliates. In one swift motion, Höðr plunges his pike into the solid ground, impeding the path of the berzerk fires of Ares. Once more, the runes and sigils across his body and godly equipment burn dimly. An aura of shadow and mist divides the inferno and shrouds his body.

"Such tenacity," the Aesir states delightfully, as his form becomes obscured by darkness and smoke. "Let's see its limit..."

Unlike before, Höðr's speed has heightened by his runic powers. With a single motion, his ghastly visage has stretched yards of distance. In the blink of an eye, he reaches Atreus, the front of his spear already rammed forward for a fatal strike. Though the Last Son of Sparta receives a large cut across his stomach, he does manage to avoid the majority of the attacks lethal aim. Yet, before he can counter, the Aesir is already on the rapid move around him. Utilizing a duel mix of throwing and ricocheting his seax to limit the god's movement, and waving around the Blades of Chaos, Atreus attempts to counter his speed with precision.

Once more, the two clash steel and blade, a mass of sparks, embers, smoke, and fire engulf and fly in all directions around them. Whenever the runic sax is thrown, Atreus immediately calls it back after it misses. Only to kick or jab it in a new location to repeat the same process. Though valiant in his tries to compete against Höðr, he cannot land another critical hit on him. Other than some minor grazes and cuts on his armor and flesh, the Aesir avoids the restless fury of Loki's attacks. Several times, he breaches Atreus's imposing tactics, managing to place a blunt kick or punch on him, before shifting away. Even so, each breach leaves him more vulnerable than the last.

At last, showing instability and gradual reduction of swiftness, Atreus takes the opportunity. With all the haste he can muster, he sheaths his several blades and dawns the Talon Bow. Impatience and anger pester on his mind, gnawing at his thoughts and impulses. Yet, he manages to keep his blinding emotions at bay. Burying his wrath, he draws from his quiver and aims his shot.

"Bruni!" He shouts as his arrow burst into furious flames.

Releasing the bolt, a line of flames follow in its wake, erupting into as a fiery explosion upon contact with the Aesir. Though his shaded aura partially protects him from the blast's force, much of his clothing cinders and burns on his person. Standing, teeth clenched into an entertained groan, he strips and tears the scorched cloth on his chest, bearing in the open more of his nordic tattoos. A familiar pattern for a brief second sparks Atreus's curiosity, before being buried like his already distracting emotions. Before his enemy can counter, the Wolf of Midgard already has another arrow prepared.

"Þruma Kráka!" He calls out, this time, one of his runes invokes as he releases an electrified arrow.

Launching the projectile, the static energy within explodes into a flock of thunderous crows. The enchanted birds soar and screech as they pursue the Aesir. However, Höðr in retort arms himself with his own, grimly bow and with an unconscious flick of his wrists, returns his fire.

"Skuggi Kráka!" The Son of Odin yells, delighted to test his marksmanship.

Unleashing his own projectiles, he imbues his with a devilish shadow, much like the mists that he enveloped himself in. As it silently glides through the sky, the arrow splits into a fogged cluster of crows. The two elemental flocks collide perfectly, erupting in a blast of darkness and lightning in all directions. Atreus, paralyzed by the unforeseen display, stares in concerned awe.

"By the gods," he whispers to himself.

"A fellow archer?" Höðr questions, all the more enticed more with the battle. "You are quite something, stranger, I am most pleased with your capabilities."

Atreus is silents, his eyes locked on the Aesir as he steadily steps to a different advantage point. Höðr, without even seeing him nor looking in his direction, mirrors his motions. Despite stepping on the debris riddled floor, his path doesn't impair him or affect his route of following Loki's movements.

"What are you?" Höðr asks, with only minor details to make a guess. "It's clear that you are no ordinary mortal, you would be dead already if you were. Perhaps..."

"What I am is a bane to your Allfather," Atreus claims sternly.

The Aesir breaks into laughter over the outraged threat, stopping in place. Atreus also holds his ground, prepared for whatever may occur next. Amid their ceasefire, the uproar above echoes across the desolate chamber that they reside in.

"My father sure knows how to make enemies," Höðr states humorously. "Never one to make allies with those he didn't find useful or who he believed were too inferior... Now I know where you stand."

Though agitated by the harsh remark, Atreus knows to keep his rage at bay. The enemy he faces is unlike anyone he's ever fought before, one wrong move could leave him fatally open for an attack. His thoughts race, skim, and produce too many concepts and ideas to keep track of. What else is this Aesir capable of, and is he capable of matching it?

A question that will be left to answer later. As Atreus ponders his solutions, another distant arrow flies toward him. Before it can make contact, Atreus smacks it away with the back end of Trolls Bane's shield. The projectile shatters from the instant barrier, sending sparkling shrapnel across the air.

Leaping away, both he and Höðr take notice to the archer who sent the shot. Though the Aesir only leans his head toward the source of the sound, he acknowledges the interfering Ullr. His nephew drops down from the same opening edge of the cavern.

"Uncle, there's someone else here!" He aims to warn his master.

"Even a blind man could have told you that!" Höðr spouts impatiently. "I was dealing with this on my own, you should be hunting down Sigyn!"

"She's gone, uncle... She's left an apparent trail heading to the Temple of Tyr, the sorceress must be intending on departing from the realm."

Sigyn's gone? The question echoes in Atreus's thoughts, silencing the other worries that cloud him. Though it's understandable to hide from the Aesir, why leave the realm when she was so willing to aid in his goals before? Even when she knew her enemies were close, she still offered her support.

While discouraged by her sudden departure, the more dire situation in front of him is his current priority. Already ill confident about facing Höðr, challenging him along with Ullr seems impossible to do. With the small window presented to him by the Aesirs' discussion, the Son of Kratos scans his surroundings. Searching for anything that will aid in his retreat.

The ceiling above is already damaged from his and Höðr's initial encounter, prompting the only solution to give himself an opening. With his bow out and the Aesir gods' still distracted, Atreus launches a flaming bolt into the air. Though The God of Darkness is the first to hear the engulfed arrow, he cannot intercept it in time. A furious explosion triggers the unstable plates, collapsing the roof on top of them. Höðr and his nephew manage to clear away from the crashing ruble. Atreus, during the chaos and deafening crash of stone and steel, vanishes within the dust and dirt clouds.

"Damn, he got away!" Ullr states, disappointed in himself.

"That he did," Höðr comments with intrigue.

"Who was he?"

At first, Höðr dismisses the question with his silence. His keen sense of hearing deciphers the several noises and echoes within the barren halls. With the rumbling commotion still persistently reflecting from every corner of the room, he stops his attempts at trailing where Atreus had gone.

"It would seem that we have a wolf among us," Höðr remarks, hinting towards Loki's prominent title among the gods. "And this one's bite has proven sharper than his bark."

"The Wolf of Midgard?" Ullr speaks aloud. "Are you sure?"

"I'm quite confident in my assumption, yes..." Utilizing the blunt end of his spear, he taps the floor, relying on the noise to guide him. Finally, he connects it to his nephew's foot. Extending a firm hand out, he grasps Ullr's shoulder. "Find Thrúd, follow Sigyn's trail, and bring her to me."

Höðr Begins walking with his pike guiding him like a cane due to the countless small sounds disorienting his sense of direction. He and the other Aesir proceed to vacate the ruins from the same way they came. Ullr accompanies his discombobulated uncle, who grasps one of his ears.

"But uncle, I want to help you fight," Ullr declares.

"The wolf is mine to kill," Höðr states. "Besides, I must report to Odin of his nearing victory here. As we speak, his elite force is most likely at the light, soon, Alfheim will be his."

A few minutes or so pass, and both the Aesir vanish into the distance. However, unbeknownst to them, Atreus never fled. Emerging from behind the pile of debris and stone flooring, a silver serpent slithers its way into the open. Raising its head up, coiling its scaley body, the snake looks to the sky. Cyan blue energy bleeds from its body, enlarging and shaping it. Atreus appears, his eyes widened by the heavenly event that unfolds. The Light of Alfheim begins to rapidly flicker, thinning substantially as the seconds pass. Eventually, dissipating altogether, the sky becomes black, clouded by dark, harrowing storms.


End file.
